


Veiled

by padalekci



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Clubbing, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dark Hermione Granger, Dom Draco Malfoy, Dom Hermione Granger, Dom/sub Undertones, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy is a Little Shit, F/M, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hermione Granger is self destructive, Hermione Granger-centric, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Dom/sub, Magical Tattoos, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Hermione Granger, POV Hermione Granger, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Self-Hatred, Sub Draco Malfoy, Sub Hermione Granger, Switching, Tattooed Hermione Granger, Tattoos, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:09:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28348932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padalekci/pseuds/padalekci
Summary: “Oh come on, Draco” His name sounds so right in her voice. She threaded her fingers through the hair on the back of his head and pulled, tilting his head back to bare his throat. “Don’t you want to play?” It’s whispered into his ear and she sounds downright dangerous.He swallowed, forced his breathing to stay even. “How do I win?”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 44
Kudos: 106





	1. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ve been at war, Harry. I’m having fun before the world decides to implode again”

The war is over. 

Voldemort is dead and Hogwarts is rebuilt. She has been invited to more funerals and memorials than she can keep track of. The world is slowly going back to normal and Hermione Jean Granger is lost. 

Well, she’s right here. She’s not dead or anything, she just has no idea what the hell to do with herself now. On the run for over a year, bolting at any small sound; reaching for a wand and a portkey. And now it’s over. Everything is going back to the way it was. 

She’s holed up in her parents house but it’s empty; they’re still Wendell and Monica Wilkins and not Mr. and Mrs. Granger. St Mungo’s is trying to rebuild their memories but it’s slow going and the medi-witches have warned her they may never fully recover from the memory spell. 

The letter comes by owl in July. It’s from Ginny and she’s asking if Hermione has heard. If she’s going to go back. 

Her ministry appointed therapist says she should. _Insisted._ Meaning she had to. 

Hermione Jean Granger doesn’t want to go back to Hogwarts. 

The golden trio split ways one day, promising to go out for lunch _soon,_ but that was months ago. Ron to the remnants of the burrow, Harry to Grimauld place, Hermione to the brownstone she grew up in that lacks a clever name. Hermione reads their letters but doesn't respond. She’s too busy. She doesn’t want to see them. 

The Daily Prophet lands on her doorstep every morning and she skims the headlines before burning the pages. Rita Skeeter survived the war and her articles still lack any real poise. 

Eliza Dawson is her childhood best friend. They went to primary school together and the blonde just happens to still live across the street. Hermione’s happy to have her only remaining friend from the muggle world so close. It makes things easier. She’s the polar opposite to anyone Hermione knows at Hogwarts. It’s refreshing and the pain stays away. 

Eliza doesn’t know why her best friend came back from her _‘private boarding school’_ covered in scars and looking much worse for wear but she does not ask and Hermione is thankful. In the beginning, she pretended not to notice the way Hermione froze at sudden movement, hand moving to a pocket. Continues to pretend she hasn’t noticed the word that she doesn’t understand carved into skin. Eliza knows that Hermione has been through something, but does not press. Hermione will talk about it when she’s ready; if that day ever comes. 

Instead of reading and living,Hermione’s days are filled with drinking, sulking, and surviving. She stares at the parchment taped to her bedroom wall. The only research she’s done since the war. The list is nearly four feet long and Hermione feels terribly because she couldn’t bring herself to go to a single funeral. If she couldn’t go to all of them she’d go to none at all. Some only memorials, because the bodies were never recovered. _Missing in Action_ is a sour phrase that drives away hope. She used to believe they’d be found during raids on Death Eater estates, but most of the time all that’s recovered are dry bones and empty cells. Hope is a fleeting concept in the new world. 

At night, Eliza walks across the street and knocks. Hermione puts on a mask, she’s cheerful and excited but it doesn’t reach her eyes and it’s a very strange sight but Eliza does not press about it. The list on the wall has been staring at her. Hermione doesn’t say anything. They get ready, put on dresses that Old Hermione would never wear. 

New Hermione is a strong and confident mask. She’s hardened by war and laughs at Old Hermione’s weaknesses. New Hermione is a patchwork quilt of qualities she always wishes she had. 

She started visiting the tattoo parlor down the street after finding out the scars on her skin would remain. There was no way of getting them off; magical wounds leave a permanent scar. Hermione decided to honor them, weave them into artwork and display them. She was proud of all but two. 

She didn’t add anything to those ones. They are a dirty reminder that she is thankful for. She lived. She survived. She could continue to do so. The scar on the inside of her left forearm is left alone, framed by ink. She leaves the slit across the hollow of her throat alone. She doesn’t know how to go about covering it and it reminds her of how precious life is, as corny as it sounds.

Needles deposit artwork. It’s a long process that forces her to think of the war, but it does not upset her. The sensation of a thousand pins scratching across nerves is comforting. She knows she is alive, she is not Missing in Action and she is free to do as she pleases. It’s painful, but she can’t bear the thought of her skin being unmarked and blank. Too many have touched and tortured her plain self. The ink under her derma is new, not part of the war; forces her to stop reminiscing because it is no longer familiar in the bad way. This is her way of weaving armor. 

Hermione Jean Granger is self destructive and she loves it. 

“I kind of want to do it”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Eliza, watching through squinted eyes as brushed shadow on her eyelids. “What for though?”

The girl shrugged. “I dunno, confidence? Same reason you got these done?” the brush is angled towards the tattoos covering Hermione’s arms. 

It will never be for the same reason but Hermione does not correct Eliza. 

“...anyway, just a thought, you could go with me, maybe do yours too” Eliza winked, a small smirk on her lips. 

Hermione is quiet for a moment, closes her eyes so Eliza can finish the smoky eye she’s painting on for the night. Old Hermione would never do such a thing. New Hermione- she doesn’t know, she never will unless she tries it. 

“Might have something that day” they both know it's a lie, that Hermione does not leave her house unless it’s to go to the tattoo parlor down the street or the clubs with Eliza. Most days she opts to watch tv with Crookshanks, on her way to becoming a stereotypical cat lady. She will go with Eliza and be self destructive because she enjoys the pain. It reminds her she is alive and not on the run. 

The club is loud and filled with bodies and the first time Hermione set foot inside she almost lost it. The loud noises and writhing bodies were a shock, almost too similar to the war. 

But Hermione got over it, pressed on. The war is over and she is safe. 

It’s a distraction now, dancing and drinking, laughing in corners with handsy strangers. She gets to forget, she gets to enjoy herself and stop worrying, if only for a few hours a night every weekend. 

She has no idea where it came from but she thinks it’s New Hermione. Old Hermione would never grind on a stranger, laugh and flirt with men she does not know the names of. Something inside of her is unhinged now, she’s desirable and she knows it because these men have no poker face. She is no longer the mousy third wheel to the golden boys of Hogwarts. She is beautiful and powerful and wanted by many. 

Hermione does not take them back to her home. Her parents’ home. That is for her and her only. Instead she lets them bring her to theirs. Hermione only goes home with men that have expensive watches and tailored suits. She learned quickly. If they have wives it is not her problem. New Hermione does not care. 

Old Hermione would, but she’s gone. 

She spends nights with strangers.

The tattoo parlor is clean and sterile but the artwork on the walls makes her feel at home. She’s spent hours studying it, needles pricking at her skin, depositing a story to be told. 

Eliza is shaking, nervous; keeps looking at the door like she’s going to bolt. Hermione grabs her by the shoulders. “You dragged me here, we’re going to do this.” she says. 

“Jean, I don’t know if I _can._ I mean we’re actually _here_ now” People had called her by her middle name in primary school because they couldn’t pronounce her first. She is glad to be called by a different name. It helps her forget. 

She smiles, a real one that reaches her eyes. “A little pain never hurt anybody” she knows this all too well. “I can go first, if you want?” She tilts her head with the question and the piercer is watching them with a small smile. A metal tray is in her tattooed hands and it smells of antiseptic. 

“Rock paper scissors?”

Hermione wins. 

The first needle doesn’t hurt but the second does. There’s pressure and it burns for a moment and then it’s gone, heat radiating from new wounds. Eliza’s hand is clammy in hers and she stares at the artwork on the ceiling above her. She finds it hurts more than the tattoos; the pain is different but she still welcomes it. The pain is proof that she’s alive. 

“Right you’re all done.” 

She’s putting her shirt back on and she’s careful about it. The piercer is giving her care instructions and she folds the paper up, shoves it in the back pocket of her jeans. Hermione wants to ask if the stud above the piercer’s lip was painful but it’s Eliza’s turn and all three have to concentrate on not disturbing the other. 

Eliza cries out when the needle goes through and then it’s over. Hermione’s hand is crushed but she doesn’t mind. The pain reminds her she’s alive. The piercer’s gloves come off with a snap and the stainless steel garbage can opens with a press of her toes. She disinfects the room while she tells the two what to expect as far as healing goes. “Any questions?”

Hermione has to ask. It’ll bother her until she does. “This one-” she taps the area above the cupid’s bow of her own lip “Did it hurt?”

The piercer smiles. “It wouldn’t hurt as much as what you two just did.” she looks at Hermione’s arms, roving over the tattoos, eyes catching on the blank space on the inside of her left forearm. “Have you caught the piercing bug now? I know you didn’t have all _those_ three months ago.”

Hermione looks down at the dark ink decorating her skin and shrugs. “I dunno yet. Maybe.”

One day she will run out of room. 

One day she will need another outlet; another way to remind herself. 

At home, she changes into a jumper and pajama pants. Eliza orders takeout and insists on overanalyzing the worst possible soap opera they can find. They take Bailey’s in their hot chocolate and switch to cheap beer when they come up with an empty liquor cabinet. Crookshanks is glaring from a recliner. It’s nothing at all like the late conversations in Gryffindor tower and she’s thankful because emotional pain is not the kind she seeks out. 

She wakes to a pounding on the door and jolts straight up, ignoring the hot shock of pain echoing over her skin as she grabs her wand from the coffee table. Pocketing it, she stomped to the front door. “Liza how many times have I-”

She yanks open the door and the man standing on her doorstep is _not_ Eliza.

“Liza?” he questions, smiling.

She stares at him, pulls the sleeves lower on her hands. She knows he won’t be able to see the tattoos unless she actually rolls the sleeves up but she does it anyway. She didn’t tattoo past her wrists and collarbone for this reason-she can still hide them. 

“Harry” she croaks, finally finding her voice. “What are you doing here?” He looks just the same as he did four months ago when they parted ways and she wonders if he’s getting enough sleep. 

He’s surprised, eyes wide behind the same glasses he always wore. “I- _we_ were worried about you?” it comes out as a question and he’s wringing his hands and she’s still standing in the doorway, hand frozen on the knob. 

“We?”

Harry looked over his shoulder at the empty street. “Ron, Ginny, and me, I mean we haven’t heard from you.” now he’s looking over her shoulder at the trashed house. Takeout boxes and beer cans everywhere. She and Eliza had a late night. “I see you’ve been busy” his tone is flat.

She bristled and stood up taller. “So?” 

He let his eyes linger on her rumpled clothes and rat’s nest of hair. “Are you going to invite me in?” Wordlessly, she stood aside and he stepped over the threshold. She wants to smack him for coming into her home and scrutinizing the mess. _It isn’t even that bad._ She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, watching Harry Potter survey the mess she’s made. Old Hermione is floating up to the surface and New Hermione is drowning. She wants to float away when he turns to look at her. “We’ve been worried” 

She tilted her head. “Why?” 

“What do you mean _why?_ We haven’t heard from you Hermione, I mean have you even _read_ our letters?” He’s talking to her like a child and she wants to scream. 

“Yes” she says it like it's obvious. Answers his next question without needing to hear it. “I’ve been busy” she tries not to spit the words he’d just used to mock her. 

“With what?” he waved an arm behind him, around him. _"This?"_

Hermione shrugged. “I’m catching up” she uses Eliza’s words and almost laughs. Eliza insisted they start going out; act like reckless teenagers, since Hermione hadn’t had a chance while she was away at _boarding school._

“Catching up?” he repeats her like the phrase is something he’s never heard before. 

Hermione nods, crosses her arms. “We’ve been at war, Harry. I’m having fun before the world decides to implode again” 

“This isn’t like you Hermione” 

Shaking her head, she walked past him to the kitchen, snagging a half empty beer off the coffee table on the way and taking a long drink. “Maybe it should be” she tossed the bottle in the garbage can, with all the others. 

He followed, leaned against the doorway. “Ron’s barely holding it together”

She pushed Old Hermione down, drowned her. “And what makes you think I’m doing any better?” she gestured to the living room behind Harry. She wasn’t going to be whisked away by Harry Potter to try and fix the boy that rejected her the moment things got hard. She wasn’t responsible for fixing Ron Weasley anymore. Hermione Granger has fixed everyone but herself. 

Harry’s throat bobbed as he took her in. “Are you going back?” his voice is small, barely above a whisper. “For the eighth year.” it’s like he’s afraid of her answer. 

“Back to what? A castle filled with ghosts? Yeah because that’s fucking healthy” she rolled her eyes, filled the kettle with water and boiled it with a spell. She would have to go anyway, the ministry insisted because of her mental state after the war but she wasn’t going to tell Harry she'd been ordered to return by her therapist. 

The look on his face hits her like a freight train and Old Hermione is back from the depths for a moment. She wonders if he’s read her mind because she’s _sure_ that his face would look exactly like that if she told him she was being _observed_ by the ministry. 

Then the door slams and it’s gone. “Hermione my tits are on fucking _fire!"_ Harry flinched at the noise and Hermione just looked over his shoulder at Eliza, frozen in the entryway because she’s seeing someone else in Hermione’s house for the first time since her return from the war. “I didn’t think you had company.” 

Harry turns, ever so slowly and takes in Eliza’s form. She’s blonde; beautiful and tall, somehow oozing confidence while dressed in leggings and an oversized jumper much like Hermione’s. 

“Oh hello,” Eliza says, eyes skipping down Harry’s form before looking at Hermione with a raised eyebrow. “Business or pleasure?” 

“Eliza, this is Harry. From school.” Hermione said it in a clear voice, widening her eyes at her friend in a silent warning to stop with the innuendos. She knew Harry might have a conniption or something similar if Eliza keeps it up. Her new world is colliding with her old one. Maybe _she’s_ the one in danger of having a conniption.

“Hi” Harry’s voice was a squeak, red from Eliza’s question. 

“Interesting” Eliza nodded, hand on the doorknob. “Well I should leave you to-whatever is it you’re doing” her eyes skimmed over the living room, hiding the smile threatening to reveal itself. “Call when you’re done, I’ll help you with this mess.” she kicked an empty can and it rolled a few inches. “And don’t forget, we still have to figure out who the father is.” and with that Eliza was out the door.

Harry turned around.. “Is she-what-are you-?” his face gave away how shocked he was if the stutter hadn’t already.

Hermione snorted. “Oh _please"_ she turned around to the kettle and fixed two cups of tea, hers the way she liked it and Harry’s plain because she knows he won’t drink it any other way. She stayed silent until she sat down at the kitchen table, stirring the sugar in. “Tea?” 

He sank into the chair opposite her and she pushed the mug closer to him. He was about to drink it before he paused, eyeing her. “So you’re _not_ pregnant?”

Hermione almost growled at him like a dog. “We’re trying to figure out who the father is on a soap opera.” she took a long drink before eyeing him. “Eliza was fucking with you.” 

“You’re swearing.” 

“I’m allowed to swear, Harry.” 

He drank his tea, and Hermione could see him fighting with himself. “You’re different.”

“I think we all are.” 

They drink their tea and for a moment, it’s like the war didn’t happen. It’s almost like they’re in the Gryffindor common room, avoiding homework like they used to. They do not make small talk, it’s deep conversation about the state of their friends and Old Hermione is there, starving for a taste of the old days. She learns George has been sent to stay in St. Mungo’s psych unit, the joke shop taken over by Ron, who isn’t doing any better. Ginny is living with Harry and Hermione bites her tongue to tease him. The burrow has been rebuilt and Molly Weasley is in pieces. Luna Lovegood runs a support group that meets in the back room of the Leaky Cauldron. McGonnagall is headmaster. 

When Harry asks again, she tells him she’s going, but not why. New Hermione wants to slap Old Hermione. Instead, she does nothing because Harry is smiling and standing to pull her into a hug. Fresh wounds send pain through her and Harry does not notice. He’s too busy telling her all the things that have changed, the lack of rules for them all since they’re of age. 

Harry leaves and she’s glad. She can’t stand the pity in his eyes. 

She stares at the trunk she’s been using as a coffee table and swears, screams, because she does not want to go back. New Hermione makes a promise, assures Hermione that she won’t leave, and she doubts it, because really, she’s just talking to different sides of herself. She’s been working towards escaping the shadow of the golden trio for the past four months and she’s about to lose everything she’s worked for. 

The house is clean after a muttered spell and a wave of her wand. New Hermione picks up the phone and dials Eliza’s number as she walks upstairs.

_“Done with your visitor are we?”_

Hermione doesn’t waste any time. “Let’s go out.” she stares into her closet, at the club dresses she’d transfigured out of old tee shirts. She pulls out a particularly revealing royal purple slip. It’s got black lace details and the straps could barely be called anything other than thread. “It’s costume night, isn’t it?” The silk is like water in her hands and she’s itching to do something out of character. 

Eliza’s smile is clear through the phone. _“That bad huh?”_

“You have no idea.” 

A few hours later, Eliza is standing in her bedroom. 

Hermione-the new one-raised her eyebrows at her friend. “Be honest, is it too much?”

Eliza is silent long enough to make Hermione want to ask something else, but her friend seems to remember how to speak. “Oh, _honey,”_ Eliza’s gaze roved over her legs; covered in dark tattoos that blend with black lace and strange scars. “Heads are going to _roll.”_ the smirk on her friend’s face tells Hermione all she needs to know. 

They leave the house twenty minutes later. Eliza is in a baby pink dress with white lace and a matching masquerade mask. Hermione’s is black, settled nicely against her cheekbones and charmed to stay on. Her hair is loose on her shoulders; she’d used magic to tame it into soft curls and cast a glamor on the word scarred into her arm. She’d learned to hide it after an awkward question whispered from drunk lips. Eliza insisted on a deep colored lipstick before allowing her outside. 

Club Moderne is always dim, lit up in red. Colored spotlights drag over the crowd from above, almost lazily. The thumping bass is loud and the air thick with the sting of alcohol and sweat. The dance floor bleeds into the rest of everything and it’s a mass of bodies moving with the music. Her shoes stick to the floor, remnants of drinks and god knows what else and it’s something she used to hate, but now? Now it’s exhilarating. 

In a raised corner booth, platinum hair and a watch to match. There’s something familiar about the way his mouth tilts to a smirk. His suit is tailored and that’s all she notices before she’s pulled into the crowd. 

* * *

_“C’mon, muggles are a lot of things but they know how to party”_

_Blaise is looking at him and he wants to hurt the man. He shook his head. “Fat fucking chance”_

_“It’ll help”_

_He only glared, eyes sharp. His wand was in his pocket, burning. It really wouldn’t take much to hex him._

_“I’ll buy your drinks”_

And that got him. He’d never say no to free liquor. 

Both men are from old money, and that’s why it didn’t take much for them to rent the booth. It’s raised above the main floor and a perfect spot to hunt from. That’s what he was doing, watching the writhing bodies and rating them in his head. _Too forward, too clumsy, too shy, too drunk._ _Not forward enough._ He wasn’t going to waste his time, he had to find a girl he liked before leaving the safety of the black velvet booth.

Muggle whiskey burns differently in his throat but it gets the job done. Blaise is talking to him with a girl in his lap, but he can’t hear what his friend is saying because he’s found the one he’s been hunting for.

Darker hair-he can’t tell exactly what color because the lights skew everything. Her dress-if you can even call it that-is silk and edged with lace. Leaves just enough to the imagination. Tattoos cover almost every inch of skin and he wonders what they are, where they stop- _if_ they stop. She’s comfortable, dancing with the girl she came in with; she’s just as beautiful, but not his type. He can feel a smirk curl over his lips. 

He sits in the booth, nursing a drink and sending the occasional glance down below. She’s dancing with a man now, body languid as she whispers in his ear. Blaise is making out with the girl he’s brought up and Draco knows it’s going to get more heated so he ducks out, shaking his glass when Blaise glances up at him. His friend gives him a nod and then he’s gone. 

It’s hard to find her when he’s on the ground level, but he’s a few inches taller than most of the crowd and that helps. A flash of pink-it’s her friend. He follows the blonde’s gaze and there she is. His flavor of the night. Or day. Depends how long he keeps her. He hasn’t decided yet.

The heat is thicker in the crowd. He wishes he could take off his masquerade mask, but Blaise used a spell to get it to stay in place and he knows you can’t really pull out a wand in a crowd of muggles without drawing attention. She’s even more alluring up close and his stomach clenches for two different reasons when she grinds up against someone that isn’t him. _She’s good at this,_ he realizes. 

She sees him looking at her and a small smirk is all that’s seen before she’s whispering in her current dance partner’s ear, leaving the man nodding and rushing off. He steps closer without even thinking about it and suddenly she’s drowning him because he can’t think of anything else. 

It’s like he’s just swallowed amortentia or maybe something stronger because his skin is on fire where she touches him and it's more intoxicating than anything he could ever consume. He can’t form a single thought because she’s running her hands down his chest and grinding on him and her hips feel _just right_ under his palms.

Her hands bunched around his shirt, pulling him closer so she could whisper in his ear. “Been wondering when you’d come down from your ivory tower.” her eyes darted to the booth where Blaise was sitting. _She’d been watching him._

He licked his lips without even thinking about it. “I-” he can’t form a single thought, let alone finish a sentence. She’s there and she’s close and he can see that the tattoos continue under the scrap of silk she calls a dress. Draco fucking Malfoy; speechless. Unheard of. 

“It’s alright” her voice is a sultry purr in his ear and he shivers when her breath rushes down his neck. “Is it your first time?”

He jerked back a fraction of an inch and it’s too far away from her. But is she _teasing_ him? 

She’s leaning back too, still holding him by his shirt. “I’ve never seen you here before” it’s that same sultry tone and no, she’s not teasing him, she’s clarifying a question.

“This isn’t my scene” and it’s the truth. He’s never been anywhere like this before. 

She’s looking at something behind him and then she’s close again. “Shame, I could’ve had some fun with you.” she tilted her head, appraising him. Her eyes pause on his lips and then her hands are smoothing out his shirt, tracing a seam with a finger. He notices the tattoos stop at her wrists. There’s a stretch of skin on her forearm that’s clean of ink but for some reason he can’t keep his eyes on it to really _look._ She leans in close and her lips brush against the shell of his ear. “See you around” 

And then she’s moving away. 

He’s spinning to keep his eyes on her and she’s throwing her friend’s arm around her shoulders. “What’s your name?” he doesn’t even know if she can hear over the music and the chatter around them.

Her eyes twinkled behind the mask. “That’d ruin the fun.” she appraised him once more, eyes stopping on something he doesn’t think is important. “Nice watch.” He looked down at the silver timepiece on his wrist, goblin wrought with emerald inlays. 

She’s gone when he looks back up.


	2. Remodel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So why don’t you just shut the fuck up and we can go back to ignoring each other?” 

Hermione stopped going to Moderne for a few weeks, opting to stay home with Eliza to watch their soap operas and get too drunk. She knows that she may not be able to continue this after returning to school. Harry talked about leaving the grounds, but with the way things are with the golden trio and that godforsaken school of rubble, she knows that something may come up. She hopes not, but she’s learned to expect everything lately. 

“You’ve been staring a hole in the coffee table for the past ten minutes. Spill.” 

Hermione looked up. Eliza was watching her expectantly and her mind only became more jumbled. “There’s a few things” 

Eliza pulled her mug of spiked Bailey’s closer and turned towards Hermione on the couch, sipping and waiting. The blonde never tried to pry, but she always knew when to push Hermione to talk, seemed to know when she needed it. She’d never had a friend that focused on her; learned her quirks other than her tendency to read and become too lost in lore and research. It was refreshing, but sometimes she hated it. 

“I have to leave, for a while” she scrunched up her nose. “During the week, anyway.”

“So you’re leaving me here by myself?” Eliza’s smile was suggestive and it was obvious she wasn’t going to be upset. 

“I won’t be here most days, but I’ll try and come back on Fridays, leave Saturday night.” she shrugged. “School” _what else could she say?_ Most people her age went to university. And it wasn’t that much of a lie.

Eliza took another drink. “This have anything to do with that guy? Harry?” she narrowed her eyes at Hermione’s nod. “You _want_ to go? Or is he making you?” Eliza knew that Hermione just wouldn’t answer some questions. It’d been a strange dance for a while but after a few weeks of being home, the two developed an understanding. 

“I have to go-believe me I’m not happy about it but it might help.” she stared at Eliza’s hands. “Harry isn’t the one making me go but he wants me to, so do my other friends. I just worry that we’ve been apart too long, changed too much.” it'd been four months but it felt like years. 

“Hermione, you’re strong, you’ll be able to figure all of this out.” Eliza quirked an eyebrow. “And if you get bent outta shape, we can always hit the club and forget about it when you come back.” Eliza’s eyes settled on something behind Hermione for a moment before blinking and meeting her gaze once more. “And last night- who was that _guy?_ The tall, dark, and handsome one?” she’s teasing but Hermione can’t disagree. He’d caught her eye five minutes in the door. 

The witch took a large drink. “He seemed familiar but I don’t know _how”_ her mind was working. It’d been nagging at the back of her mind since she’d left Club Moderne, but she couldn’t think of anyone she knew in the muggle world with _that_ hair. The wizarding world was a different side of her life, one that wouldn’t intersect with her muggle one. It wouldn’t. 

“He was staring at you all night. Did he seem to know you?”

Hermione laughed. “If he does I doubt he knows it.” she skimmed through names in her mind. Who did she know with white blond hair? Aside from the obvious- _no._ “If I see him again I might be able to tell, but he might be gone forever” her stomach twisted at the thought. His hands had been strong, steady. _Not to mention he’s her type._ The air between them had felt electric, almost magic. He’d danced with her, but struggled to find words. It’d been cute how enamored he seemed. She liked them that way; it was fun to play with them, make them blush and stutter. It made her feel powerful. The club was always a power trip for her. She could do whatever she wanted around strangers. They didn’t know her, wouldn’t judge her for changing. 

“I hope he comes back, you two were on fire.” Eliza grinned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen lust like that before” 

She ran a finger along the seam of the couch. “He didn’t seem like he went to clubs often, I don’t know.” 

“Well we can only hope. Did you tell him your name?”

Hermione snorted. “Do I ever?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” 

Hermione had made a point to never tell the men at clubs her name, sometimes making one up, sometimes not telling them anything. It was easier that way, no attachments. Safer. And no matter who it was, it was always the wrong voice in her ear. But last night, that voice-rough and shy, it sounded _right._

They make idle conversation as they get more and more drunk, arguing about whether or not the nextdoor neighbor is cheating on his wife and everything is just fine. Hermione has almost forgotten that her world is going to collapse on September first. Anything is a welcome distraction from things she cannot control. 

She dreams of a faceless blond and schoolyard fights that night. She wakes up sweating and out of breath. It’s the first time she’s dreamt of something other than flashes of green and red. Familiarity is often unwelcome to her, but this is different; almost the same as it used to be. It does not hurt and she collapses back into bed, chasing visions of blurred memories. 

The tattoo parlor is empty when she walks through the door and she leaves with something new. The artist knows her well by now, they always make idle conversation as he runs his needles over her skin. The pain is comforting, something she can control; something she asks for. She knows that if anyone from her old life saw her here, on the table, they would try to have her committed. 

She does not care. 

Hermione has stopped caring. She knows that she can move on with her life, try to forget the war. She knows that she will always play a part in the wizarding world; she has plans for her life, but for now? Now she’s just having fun tearing herself apart. 

She likens her new version of herself to a kitchen remodel, as strange as it sounds. She’s ripped out the old fixtures, replaced them with new and improved versions. She has always been too meek when it really counts; sure she’d get a little feisty at times, but most days she looks back at instances and cringes. There are so many conversations she wishes she could revisit just to throw in one last quip, burn someone with her tone. She stopped reliving those moments and made new ones to smile at. Her mind has always been fast; cruel banter had come easily once she’d given up on preserving her image as the golden girl. She doesn’t feel bad. 

It had been difficult, at first; starting over. If it weren’t for Eliza, she would still be the same quiet girl with her head shoved in a book. Reading had always been her escape, be it fiction or not. She could just as easily get lost in a math textbook as a work by Vonnegut. No more has she opted to escape, focus on fictitious realities. Hermione Granger will live in the now, act in the moment. God-- it’s like she’s read one too many self help novels.

Eliza had dragged her out of the house in a dress Hermione would have never worn, she’d been sure that she would hate it; want to either throw up or leave, but she’d done neither. Instead of running away from the fire, she ran straight in. 

Men gawked openly; at first it’d been unsettling, but now? Lately? She loved the attention. Some sick and twisted part of her attempted to reason that it was because Harry received all the praise of the wizarding world. But maybe another part of it basked in their gaze, said it was because she’d grown into her wild hair and her plain features had become less plain, setting her apart. Here in the muggle world, she wasn’t getting attention for being a war heroine, she was getting attention because she was a hot bitch. She wasn’t one to objectify herself, but attention from the press was more annoying than that of men at clubs. It was a power trip, plain and simple. 

Part of her reinvention had been the tattoos. They were new, something untouched by war. She had grown tired of staring at the scars on her body, tired of reliving those moments, memories pulling from her mind and projecting themselves on her eyelids. The scar on her arm and neck are the only two that stay. She hasn’t defeated their memory, the feeling of despair and everything else that came after. 

Her tattoos lack any _real_ meaning, some had just come to her in her dreams, the vision staying long after the memory had faded. She would wake with the sight and immediately start on a concept sketch, bringing it to the shop to finish. Some are important to her, symbolising hardship and whatnot, but most are there because she wanted them there. She doesn’t make everything out to have some long winded meaning. If she wanted a lotus on her thigh, then she’d get exactly that. It didn't have to make sense. 

Hermione learned long ago that things hardly ever made sense, so why should she?

The ministry appointed therapist is a kind eyed woman that is terrible at hiding her pity, but she’s good enough at scolding Hermione for ignoring her trauma instead of dealing with it. “You need to talk to someone, it doesn’t have to be me, but you need to talk.” her tone is careful, wary, and it fills the witch with anger. 

Hermione sits across from the woman, arms crossed with a dim glare as she waits for the hour to be up. “I am.” it’s petulant and she doesn’t care enough to be apologetic. 

“Who?”

“There’s a support group that meets on Saturdays near my house.” the words don’t want to come out. She doesn’t want to admit that she needs help. Doesn’t want to admit where she found it. “A muggle support group.” 

There’s a deep set disappointment in the woman’s brown eyes and she wants to scream. What does it matter? Muggles go to war all the time, usually sent over and never return. She wasn’t even on the front lines for most of _her_ war. The battle of Hogwarts was the worst of it. Running through the woods and evading capture was stressful, ingrained a few bad habits, but it could have been much worse. 

“Hermione, you need to seek help within the wizarding world.” 

“Why? So someone can sell the information to Rita Skeeter? Muggles have been at war more often than not, going to them puts things in perspective.” 

She doesn’t hear the woman chiding her because in her mind, she’s in a conference room surrounded by worn men. She’s the only woman and they don’t question her anymore. Not after hearing her half truth stories. 

_‘We were on the front lines in Bosnia. Insurgents were everywhere, we didn’t have radios and half our unit was dead or bleeding out. You don’t see it in the movies, but people don’t die quick out there. It takes hours to bleed out. We tried stopping it. Kid was only nineteen, always told us how he wanted to get back home to his mum. He told us so much about her that I swear I know her. I can still hear ‘im at night, beggin’ me to tell his momma he loved her, that he’d be back to see her soon, as soon as we got outta that shithole. When we finally got airlifted out, he was gone.’_

“Miss Granger!”

She blinked away the memory, somehow still feeling a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hands. “What?” 

There’s pity in her brown eyes and Hermione looks away. 

“You need to write while you’re at Hogwarts, keep me updated. If you don’t-”

“I know.” 

She opted to floo to Hogsmeade and walk up to the grounds instead of taking the Hogwarts Express when she woke up on September first. It’s easier than sitting in a train car with Ron, Ginny, and Harry. She knows if she’s locked in a room with the whole lot of them she’ll lose her goddamn mind. She regrets enough as it is. She’s not going to add ruining friendships to that list. 

Anyone repeating their seventh year is deemed an eighth year, thus a new set of rules. It’s more like university, but she can’t have her true college experience with the people she’s known since first year. 

It’s annoying as hell. 

She’s glad she can use the floo on Fridays because she’d lose it if she didn’t have an out. New Hermione would lose it. She doesn’t want to be trapped in the same place for months, only escaping at Christmas.

The great hall is the same, if not more grand. The ceiling looks clearer, the magic renewed and the stone polished. She doesn’t let herself stare at the spot on the floor where her dead friends had been laid out. She swears she can still see them there. 

“‘Mione!” It's Ron and he’s rushing towards her and he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks but his smile is the same under all the wear. 

“Ron” she mumbled into his robes, holding back a wince as he barrelled into her.

“I missed you! You should’ve told us you put up wards for the owls!” 

Harry is looking at her and she knows he lied to spare Ron’s feelings. He didn’t have the heart to tell his best friend that she just didn’t want to talk to them. “Yeah, I uh-” and then she had to stop talking because Ron’s lips are on hers and she’s about to flip out but Old Hermione stops her. New Hermione wants to hex the man. There’s a war going on in her mind so all she does is stand still until it’s over. 

“C’mon” he drags Hermione to the far end of the Gryffindor table and sits next to her. Ginny is down the row, smiling at something her classmate has just said. Harry is watching her and she wants to scream at him to stop _looking at her like that._ “So how have you been?”

She pulls her sleeves down over her hands. She imagines telling the truth and stifles a laugh before shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m alright” it’s not what he asked but Ron nods at the answer, snakes his arm around her waist, quickly recoiling when she jumps at the touch. It’s never going to be the same between them.

New Hermione loved her for it but Old Hermione wants her to apologize, pull him closer. Part of her wonders if she should tell the mind healer about the apparent separation between her two selves, but it’d probably land her in St. Mungo’s so she decides against it before truly thinking about it. Hermione Granger is not crazy. _She just isn’t._

McGonagall is speaking and she eats silently; hating the looks people give her when she startles at sudden movement. She hasn’t been in this kind of situation since before the war and she wants to hurl. The club was anonymous though filled with people. Here, everyone knew her name, her face. 

Dinner tastes bland and she looks around at everyone else, wondering who all came back. Neville is standing next to Luna, the pair of them in deep conversation at the Ravenclaw table. She doesn’t know many Hufflepuffs but the ones she shared class with in the past look haunted. Slytherin house is fuller than she would expect, and she blinks when she sees a shock of platinum blonde hair. She feels the ghost of hands on her hips and she looks away. It’s not him. _But the smirk._ No. It’s almost laughable. _No._

Hermione Granger had completely forgotten that Draco Malfoy existed. Between the war and everything else, she’d forced everything out of her mind. It was easier to forget. The last she knew, he defected and got put on a low level ministry watchlist. After returning home to the muggle world, she’d forgotten his existence. Along with so many others. The Malfoy family was old news, Rita Skeeter didn’t write about them. Most of her friends had slipped from her mind as well, the memories only made things hurt more.

“Why are there so many eighth years at the Slytherin table?” she finds herself asking without really thinking about it. “I wouldn’t expect any to come back.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow and looks over. “I heard something about rehabilitation” _They’re just as fucked up as you are._ Something dark inside her unfurls as she realizes that she is not the only one forced to return to Hogwarts in the name of emotional healing. Maybe they all have healers vying for intimate details about their lives after the war too. 

“Huh” she mused, though her mind is spinning. She knew Draco abandoned the Death Eater cause; refused to go to Voldemort that night in the courtyard- but she figured he had enough money to get out of things like this. Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and Millicent are the only others she recognizes; she doesn’t know their involvement or if they’ve even been marked. Goyle is dead and Crabbe is in Azkaban. Really, she’s never paid much attention to the rest of the Slytherin house. Draco Malfoy was the only one that would catch her eye, usually for the wrong reasons.

The Gryffindor common room is painfully the same and all she wants to do is go to bed. The couches are new but strike a likeness to the old ones and she finds them uncomfortable. Somehow she'd been dragged up there even though none of the eighth years are sleeping in their old haunts. McGonagall had thought it a good idea to separate the eighth years from the rest of the student body because of the differentiation in rules. The lack of curfew. 

“Hermione, aren’t you hot in that?”

It’s Ginny and she’s watching her play with the sleeve of her robes. “No, not really” She chanced a look at Ron, who looked uncomfortable. _Oh yeah. That’s just fucking great, he’s got that guilty look on his face._ Ron had refused to touch her after Bellatrix’s handiwork, said it was too painful for him. That was where it all went downhill. She wonders if he’s over it, if that’s what he was trying to say when he kissed her. Old Hermione begged her to get over it-go back to him, and New Hermione reminded her of those handsome strangers in the club, how they were nothing like Ron. The two sides of her mind were like the angel and devil on her shoulder. 

She almost doesn’t hear Harry whisper _‘Gin’_ in a warning tone but she does. 

They’re tiptoeing around her and she hates it. “I’m going to bed” 

“Me too” there’s a fake yawn.

 _For fuck’s sake._ It’s Ginny again and she’s following her down the corridor to the eighth years' shared quarters where she's to be living for the next year. _No privacy._ Not like she'd be screwing anyone at Hogwarts anyway. Old and New are fighting in her head and it hurts. The new bedroom is an aching red and there’s two four poster beds opposite each other. The trunk she hadn’t really packed is at the foot of her bed and she sighs, opens it to pull out pajamas. _You can’t change in front of her._

_Fuck._

She changes in the bathroom and wonders why the hell they didn’t update things because it’s exactly the same. New toilets would have been nice. 

“Hermione, did you hear about Neville and Luna?” Ginny's been assigned to be Hermione's roommate even though she's a year younger; technically a seventh year. Briefly, she wonders if the healers arranged this. If Ginny is supposed to be watching her. 

The redhead is sitting on her own bed, expecting to have _girl talk_ and Hermione wants to throw up, run, or avada herself. Maybe all of the above, in that order. “That they’re dating?” She knows she has to play the game. 

“Well that, and they’ve been looking at houses together” 

Hermione’s face twitched. “A bit young, don’t you think?”

“I mean you and Ron talked about that kind of thing, didn’t you?” 

_Avada time._ “That was-we were at war, Gin, I really wasn’t expecting to survive.” she sat down on her own bed. “Talking about it was a distraction.” 

Ginny nodded. “Do you think it’s over?” 

“Yes, it’s over.” she saw Ginny raise an eyebrow and she sighed. “I just can’t trust him to be there anymore. He ran away when I needed him and if he thinks everything’s going to go back to normal now that we’re still alive and all that, he’s got another thing coming.” 

Her friend’s tone is interested now. “So is there anyone else now?” 

“I don’t kiss and tell, Gin” _if only she knew._

“Hermione Granger! I need the dirty details” she clasped her hands in front of her. _"Please?"_

The witch only shook her head. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” she even smiled. 

The library is the only place she can go to be alone. She made sure to wake up before Ginny. She’d have to find some kind of charmed topical to help hide the tattoos because she wasn’t going to sneak around like this all year. She’s not ashamed of the tattoos, no, quite proud actually. They turned out beautifully and she loves looking at them, but they’re for her and she chooses who sees them. It makes sense in her own way. Her friends would never understand. They’d probably send her to Mungo’s for a mental breakdown because _it’s so unlike her._

That was why she started doing it. She’d been the same person for too long, and after the first, she’d just _liked_ them. She felt powerful with them. A suit of armor. 

Walking down the halls, every eye throws a dent in her armor, the pity melting through nonexistent metal. She hates it, wants to scream at them to _stop fucking staring_ but she doesn’t. She stays quiet, doesn’t raise her hand for questions. If a professor looks to her for a solution, she stares back blank faced because why does anything matter? She was on the run for over a year, lived in the woods and fought for her life. What’s the real world going to throw at her? Taxes? It’s not like they teach them about that shit anyway. She has all the information she needs, gained by experience. 

McGonagall’s permission to be in the restricted section granted her full access and she was glad for it. There’s a small alcove at the far end of the hallway of shelves. It’s lined with cushions, backed up to a large window. It’s the only place she’s left alone. It’s cozy and she thinks she won’t be disturbed as she reads through a book on legilimency. 

She thought wrong. 

Footsteps and then a deep sigh. “Bit early for a read, isn’t it?”

“What else am I supposed to be doing?” her tone was confrontational by accident.

Harry carded his hair. _How’d he even get in here? Did McGonagall give him access?_ “I don’t know, Ginny said you were weird last night. Everyone’s worried about you” he said it quietly like she wasn’t supposed to actually hear. “And Ron wants to talk to you about-” he gestured weakly to her arm. “That”

“What about it?” she knew he was talking about the scar without his weak step-arounds. It was Ron and he was predictable. 

Harry looked like he wanted to run away. “Well, er, he wanted to apologize” 

Hermione tilted her head. “Why did he send you and not come himself?” 

“He’s scared? Nervous?” Harry shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.” 

“No it isn’t, he’s an open book.”

“To you, maybe.” 

She sighed, straightened up in her seat. “If Ron can’t speak to me himself, then maybe he shouldn’t be apologizing” his name is like acid in her mouth. It’s like all of her anger was brought up from the depths of wherever she’d pushed it. 

“You have to go easy on him, he’s been through-”

New Hermione bristled. “You’re kidding me, right?” Harry’s mouth snapped shut and he stared at her with wide eyes. “You want me to coddle him like you’ve been coddling me?” 

“Hermione we aren’t-”

“Oh, don’t move too quickly, she just jumped! Don’t say anything about her clothes! Don’t say this or that around her, she might start _crying."_ Hermione’s tone was mocking but she didn’t care. “News flash, Harry; we went to war and _came back.”_ Old Hermione was yelling in her ear to stop, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. “I don’t expect the world to stop turning because someone played Jackson Pollock with my arm and killed a bunch of my friends.” she kept her voice plain on purpose. 

_"Hermione,_ this isn’t you let me-”

“If you say the word _help_ I’ll fucking castrate you” her voice was a low hiss. 

Harry’s mouth snapped shut and the look he was giving her would break the old version of herself, but she was different now. She was too angry. Without another word, he spun on his heel and left; the library door slammed. 

She went back to the book, breathing deeply. She was going to stay calm, not go running through the halls to hex the shit out of Ron.

 **You should.**

_Go fuck yourself._

**That probably made everything worse, you know.**

What the hell else was she supposed to do? Say ' _yes Harry, anything for Ron, Harry?’_ No. She was fine here in the restricted section of the library. By herself. 

“Quite a show Granger.”

_For fuck’s sake._

Hermione looked up and it’s Draco Malfoy. He’s grown taller, sharper, and she sees that behind his eyes, he’s just as fucked up as she is. He’s good at hiding it, but she knows what to look for. They’re both good at hiding things. “Oh, fuck yourself.” it’s New Hermione and she almost laughs at the way his eyebrows jump in surprise. 

He leaned against the bookshelves, hands in his pockets. “Can I expect this every morning?” His tone is plain, bored. 

A scoff. “Oh yeah, I _definitely_ plan out when I’m going to be accosted by Harry fucking Potter about Ron Weasley’s _feelings.”_ she gestured to her bag with a pen. “I’ll be sure to give you a copy of the schedule.” her voice is sarcastic and she wonders why she’s even giving him the attention. 

“Trouble in paradise?” he crossed his arms and Hermione-Old _and_ New-freezes. She’s silent, staring at his wrist. " _Granger_ ” his tone is commanding and she blinks; looks up at him. _I told you the smirk was familiar._ He looks concerned for a split second and it’s gone, replaced by a raised eyebrow that’s waiting for an explanation. 

She wants to laugh _so_ badly. 

“What the hell are you staring at?” he asks, seeing that she’s back on earth. 

Hermione shrugs, decides on something in a split second. “Your watch” there’s no recognition in his eyes. _He doesn’t know._ “Looks expensive” 

Draco’s head tilts and his hands are back in his pockets. “It is” 

She nods, watching the movement. _It’s definitely him._ “If you’re done spectating my arguments, I’d like to be left alone now.” 

“Hate to be a spoilsport but I’m here on business” he replied, tone taunting her. 

Shrugging, she returned to her book, trying to read, but he doesn’t move. _Does he know?_ “What are you still doing here?” she looks up and he’s staring at her-not really, just _looking_ at her. 

“You’ve taken up the entire booth,” he held up a leatherbound book that’d seen better days. “I’m sure you know these can’t leave”

The book boundary to keep students from stealing them.

_Fuck._

“By all means” she muttered, sweeping her bag to the floor and scooting closer to the wall. “Go nuts.” 

The alcove was really a large bench built into a wall. There was plenty of space between them and it was easy enough to ignore him and read, for a few hours at least. It was odd, sitting next to him because she could see the way his jaw ticked just before he wrote something down. His handwriting was smooth cursive and she envied him for it. Hers looked like chicken scratch no matter how hard she tried to perfect it. She found herself switching back and forth between reading and observing him. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. 

“Would you stop that?” 

She stilled, looked up at him. “Stop _what?”_

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “You’re kicking the bench” 

“You can always _leave.”_ she glared. “I’m sure you have better places to be.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t _want_ to spend my time around Gryffindor’s golden prude. Some of us are here for a reason.”

“So why don’t you just shut the fuck up and we can go back to ignoring each other?” 

He scoffed, turned a page. “Gladly”


	3. Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? Is the big bad Slytherin afraid of a couple muggles now?”

The club was the same as always, and he sat in the same booth, watching, waiting. Blaise invited Theo along and the pair were playing cards on the small table in the middle of the space while Draco watched over the floor.

“Malfoy, you don’t even know if she’ll  _ be _ here” It’s Blaise and the statement earns him an icy glare. 

“Who?” Theo’s mask is a deep green. It’s masquerade night again. Blaise had told him every Friday was like this. 

Zabini chuckled darkly. “Poor bastard’s in love, happened a few weeks ago” 

_ “Who?” _ Theo’s more insistent and he’s leaning forward. 

“Dunno, some muggle, I didn’t see her, but when he came back he was…” Blaise tilted his head at his cards. _ “bothered.”  _

Theo’s eyes shift to the blond. “What’s her name?” 

“He doesn’t know,” Blaise laughed, set down a bet. “She wouldn’t tell him” 

“Sounds like a tease” Theo leaned back in the velvet cushions, his expression wistful. “I fold.” he aimed the words at his opponent, who glared. “What if you don’t find her?” 

Draco shrugged, spun the ring on his finger. “She’ll be here.” 

“How do you know?” 

Blaise kicked his friend under the table. 

“She told me.” he says it nonchalantly and his friends don’t realize it’s a lie. For all he knows she doesn’t even live in London; she could’ve been visiting. He needed another drink. 

Theo and Blaise barely bat an eye as he left, slowly descending the stairs. He didn’t want anyone else. Her touch had been electric, and he didn’t give a shit about the other girls around him. They didn’t- _ couldn’t _ compare. He was in deep and they’d barely had a conversation.  _ Fuck.  _

The bartop was frosted glass and the bartenders were all scantily clad. “Whiskey” he said, seeing one look at him for an order. The woman that poured his drink was nice to look at; tan and legs that went on for days but she didn’t stir anything inside of him. Just his drink. He didn’t understand why-it was just whiskey. Angling for a tip probably. 

He was turning to go back upstairs when he saw her.  _ And holy shit.  _ The dress was long sleeve and reached the middle of her thighs. The black fabric hugged her body, highlighting her curves just right. He swore his mouth watered. The mask she wore over her eyes was plain black and molded to her features like it was made for her. The bloke she was with let his hands roam freely and Draco fought to right himself before turning back to the bar. He needed something else to focus on. 

He downed the glass of amber and ordered another, almost shaking the counter when he slammed the muggle money down. 

“Thought this wasn’t your scene?” her voice was in his ear and he shivered. 

Her eyes were more beautiful up close and he could almost tell what color they were with the white light bleeding up from underneath the bartop. He swallowed thickly. “Decided to give it another try.”

An arm snaked across his chest and took his fresh glass of whiskey. “Find something you like?” He watched her throat work as she swallowed. 

“Still trying to decide.” he took the glass when she handed it back, eyes not leaving hers as he took a long draw. He didn’t know what to think of her just yet. He’d thought about her plenty, but that wasn’t the point here. 

She tilted her head and pouted. “Well if you need more time…” she drew out the words and his eyes couldn’t leave her lips. “I’ll be around” and she was turning to leave. 

_ You idiot. Why didn’t you just say yes? _

A hand darted out and caught her arm. “Wait” the word was almost a whisper, but she turned back, eyebrow raised. He realized she wasn’t going to speak first. This was a game. “Stay” 

She gave a slow smile and rejoined him at the bar, easily melting into his side. “Could’ve said that to start,” she took his glass once more. “might bruise a girl’s ego,” she leaned in close, breath tickling his neck. “we tend to hate that.” Draco was glad he was leaning against the bartop because he couldn’t feel his legs for a moment. 

“Sorry” he hated that it sounded ragged. Hated that he even said the word. 

Her voice was a hum in his ears. “You only have to tell me what you want” and then her lips were on his neck, just barely grazing the skin before she pulled back, drinking more of his whiskey. 

Draco’s eyes were dark, his face flushed. “You want me to beg?” his voice wasn’t as shaky as he’d expected it to be and he silently thanked Merlin. The thought of him begging didn’t bode well with him. Why’d he even go there first?

She smirked, running her finger along the rim of the glass. “That can be arranged,” it was a purr that made him shiver. “But  _ asking _ works just as well.” she looked out at the dancefloor, eyes landing on her blonde friend from the other night, checking on her before meeting his eyes once more. 

He looked down at her. “Can I touch you?” it was barely a whisper. 

She moved, bringing him with her so his back was against the bar, pinning him there. “I suppose” she was at his ear again, lips hovering over the skin. “Can I return the favor?” she rolled his earlobe between her teeth-softly. His legs threatened to give out once more. 

Draco nodded, letting out a harsh breath when her lips trailed down his neck, to his collarbone. Her teeth grazed over the skin, tongue flicking out to trace shapes into his skin. His hands went to her waist and stayed there because he couldn’t do anything else with her doing _ that _ . 

Someone bumped into them, jarring both of them out of their world for a moment. Whoever it was, the two ignored them. When she pulled back, she smiled, bit her bottom lip. She took all of him in; dark eyes, flushed skin, and inability to breathe evenly. “You know,” she followed the seam of his shirt with her finger, trailing down his shoulder to his arm. “I thought you’d have more in mind,” she trailed down to his wrist, his hand. “than just  _ this _ ” she pressed his hand into her hip where it’d been resting. She went back to his wrist, guided his hand up her hip, to her stomach, between her breasts. 

“I do” his voice was low. 

“So show me” she breathed, tilting her head as if to egg him on. 

He licked his lips, brought his hand to just under her jaw, thumb swiping across her mouth. She opened her lips, just a fraction of an inch and her bottom lip dragged with the movement. He couldn’t look away if he tried. She smiled up at him, drawing him into her mouth, tongue flicking against the pad of his thumb. If he thought his legs were weak before, they were gone now. She released his thumb with a ‘pop’ and he let his other hand wind around to pull her closer by the small of her back. She kissed his print, raising an eyebrow when he pressed her against him. 

“Can I take this off?” He used the hand cradling her jaw to trace a finger along the bottom of the mask she wore. He wanted-no,  _ needed _ to see her. All of her. 

Her hand slid over his and brought it down between them, rubbing circles into the skin. “That’s against the rules,” she teased, looking down, spinning the ring on his pointer finger. “Slytherin.” she met his eyes, eyebrow raised like she’d just called him by name. 

_She’s a muggle. This is a muggle bar in muggle London._ “Yeah” he breathed. Clenching his jaw, racking his brain for something to say. What can he say Slytherin means? He had no fucking clue. She made her way back to his throat, lips barely brushing against the skin.

“More of a Ravenclaw myself” she whispered, letting her teeth drag along his skin again. 

He jerked back, looking at her. “You’re a-” he doesn’t know what else to say, if he should say it with this many muggles around. 

She scoffed at his expression. “You’re not the only wizard out for a night on the town.” He looked around, watching for anyone that could have heard, but no one was paying attention. “What? Is the big bad Slytherin afraid of a couple muggles now?” she’d followed his gaze.

He met her eyes and they were glinting, watching with a smug expression. “No.”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered” she traced a finger along his jaw, a small smile on her face. 

“I’m not.” he set his jaw and let his free hand twist a lock of hair around his fingers. He needed something other than her to focus on because  _ this was not like him. _ Draco Malfoy was not easily flustered. 

“Not what? Cute or flustered?” she bit her lip as she smirked and  _ Merlin _ . 

He blinked, shook his head. “I don’t-I’m not-”

“Whatever you say next is going to be a lie,” she leaned in close to whisper it and he froze, face heating with something that wasn’t lust. She looked out at the dancefloor and then back to him, eyes roving over him. “You’re blushing.” she rolled her lip between her teeth and  _ fuck. _

“Am not.” 

She scoffed, stepped back, but he pulled her in, wanting-no-  _ needing _ her close. “It’s time for me to go.” she explained, her tone almost chiding. 

“Can you stay?” 

She shook her head. “I can’t” she traced something on his chest and his grip on her tightened the slightest bit. “You’ll see me again” she said softly, as if she knew he already hated to be away from her. Draco let his grip loosen once more and she stepped back, leaving his hands to drop to his sides. He shoved them in his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. 

“Can I ask your name?” 

She picked up his forgotten whiskey glass and swirled the contents, staring down at the tumbler before setting it down. She didn’t drink it. “That’s not part of the game.” she bit her lip once more; this time was different than the others, it was a tic, a habit. She was thinking about something. “And don’t drink this.”

She was stepping back, towards her blonde friend. “Why?” he looked between the glass and her.

“It’s been roofied.” she said it like it was obvious and then she was gone.

He looked at the glass, swirled the contents as she did. Something was floating at the bottom and he knew he wouldn’t have noticed it. He left the tumbler where it sat before heading back to the booth to nag Zabini and Nott to leave. There was no reason to stay if she was gone. 

* * *

On Sunday, she snuck out of her room at half past seven. It’d taken half an hour to get ready and triple check that her sleeves and neckline were long and high enough to hide everything. She knew she had to find something to cover the tattoos but it wasn’t at the top of her list. Sulking around and avoiding her friends took precedent. Harry had been watching her, looking at her like she could break at any moment and the rest had pity etched clear on their faces. Ron wouldn’t look her in the eye and New Hermione laughed at the whole show. 

It was always harder to sneak out after eight, since that’s when Ginny woke up, and any time after nine, someone was in the common room. It would take some getting used to, living with the other eighth years. It was a mixed bag of houses living together and she’d been caught off guard the first morning when she’d almost run into a Hufflepuff. She picked up breakfast and went straight to the library, silently berating anyone that even looked at her. 

There’s a strange routine that she’s sunk into. She’s been away for so long that she’s able to push down her old hatred for the Slytherin with platinum hair; not that it was that strong to begin with. He called her names, sure- _ the worst one in the book _ -but she’d been attracted to pain for much longer than she’ll ever let herself believe. It doesn’t bother her much when Draco beats her to the restricted section. It doesn't bother her when they sit side by side in silence, researching the things they’ll never learn in class. They don’t talk, and Hermione doesn’t know this but her spat with Harry told Draco that she was different now; he sees her in a different light. He thought it looked green. 

Draco was already sprawled on the bench with a fucking  _ yearbook _ of all things and she sighed, alerting him to her presence. “Shopping for a new whore?” 

He glanced up, brow furrowed. “Granger” was all he said in greeting before moving to his side of the bench and resuming the search for a nonexistent Ravenclaw. Hermione rolled her eyes and threw her bag down, walked to the spot where her current book of interest was. When she turned around, he was staring at her, analyzing her. 

“What?” She tried not to sound nervous.  _ Did he figure it out? _

He only narrowed his eyes and looked down at the yearbook again, flipping to the next page. His jaw worked and she batted away memories. 

_ Get him to blush again. _

**Let’s not end the game before it’s truly begun.**

Hermione sat down on her side and got to work, pen pinched between her teeth as she read through the pages she’d left off on. When she turned to get her notebook out of her bag she froze. Again. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He narrowed his eyes and swallowed thickly. She kept from watching his throat bob. “What’s a roofie?” He pronounced it far too stiffly and Hermione stifled a laugh at the amount of pain he was feeling after asking her a question revealing that he’d been out and about in the muggle world.  _ “What?”  _

She shrugged, pulled the notebook from her bag. “Hitting the clubs are we?” She knew the answer, of course she knew. His jaw ticked and she sighed, looking down at the empty page in front of her. Sometimes he’ll play the game, banter for a moment but usually goes back to being stoic after a few words. Like he’s forgotten who she is. “It’s rohypnol.” 

“What the hell is that?”

She snorted, meeting his eyes again. “Muggles use it before surgery to keep you from moving.”

“And what does it mean to be roofied?”

“It means someone put rohypnol in your drink. Or food, whichever they have access to.” she shrugged, expecting him to be done with his questions. 

“Why?”

She raised her eyebrow. “Why would someone roofie someone else?” Draco just looked at her like it was obvious what he was asking. “It’s a paralytic.” she looked up and he was waiting for her to say something else. “A date-rape drug”

“Granger, you’re terrible at explaining things”

“Think about what I just said,” she muttered “it’s not hard to put it together”

It’s silent for a while. She glances over and freezes. He’s staring at her- _ through her _ and his hands are clenched around the book so tightly she worries the spine may crack. “Malfoy.” Nothing, he’s still staring, murderous. _ “Malfoy.” _

He blinks and levels his eyes on her. It’s quiet and he looks down at his hands, at the book threatening to snap in half. “How do you know...” he blinks a few times. “...that your drinks have been roofied?”

“You can see it if it doesn’t dissolve fast enough but after that,” she stopped, shrugging in place of what she was  _ going _ to say. “It’s harder to tell”

“What does it do?”

She’s looking back at her hands again. “Makes you feel sick, too drunk. Then you can’t move” she shrugged. “You don’t remember much afterwards but you’re awake while it’s happening” she has to stay nonchalant. 

He’s seething, angry, and it’s terrifying. Then it’s gone and he’s only looking at her. “Why did you ask if I was going to clubs?” he’s suspicious and she’s getting whiplash with his mood swings. 

“Because that’s where it usually happens.” she shrugged. “You have to be careful in them, I’ve seen it often.”

It’s quiet.  _ “You _ go to the clubs?” and his tone is incredulous. 

“Would that be so hard to believe?” she tilted her head. It’s a welcome change of subject, but still dangerous. He might be getting ideas.  _ What if he knows? _ He’s silent, staring at her far too closely and she’s annoyed. “What?” His eyes are raking up and down her robes like there’s something hidden there. There is, but he doesn’t know that.  _ Can’t know that. _

He scoffed. “Trying to imagine you in a club dressed like that.” he waved a hand at her clothes, opening the yearbook again.

“What makes you think I dress like  _ this _ in a dark room with no air conditioning and hundreds of people?” she’s goading him on purpose.  _ There’s no way he knows. _

“Because you’re the golden girl of Hogwarts” his eyes slice through her. “And the biggest prude in this school.”

She laughs, a real full body laugh and he’s looking at her like she’s just caught fire. “You don’t know  _ anything _ , Malfoy” She picks up her notebook, pulls her bag closer. There’s a plan and she knows it’s dangerous. She’s getting ready to run, just in case. Just in case. She’s good at running. 

“Which one?”

She can’t stop laughing and he’s glaring. “My friends and I go to  _ plenty.” _ she finally calms down enough to stop laughing. _ It’s a game and it’s fun.  _

He sneered. “Right, because Potter and the Weasel just seem the type.” 

She snorted. “They’ve never set foot inside a club in their lives and I’m sure it’ll stay that way.”

“You don’t have any other friends, Granger.” 

She could shut him up right there, all it would take is ‘ _ I hear you like masquerade night’ _ in a sultry tone and he’d be gone _. _ He’s in the trap and she can snap it closed. But she doesn’t, not yet. “No one you would know.” She says it nonchalantly and she’s proud of herself for not running.  _ Yet.  _ But she wants to. 

He’s leaning against the wall of the alcove and thinking, rubbing his temples. He looks like he wants to ask, his jaw is ticking and she can make a run for it if she needs to. Then they’re back in silence, reading and taking notes. He ignores her and she doesn’t look at him. They work for hours on separate projects in silence. 

It’s almost past lunch when the wards guarding the restricted section of the library shake. She hears a dull thud and she’s too busy reading to pay any attention. She forgets to wonder why she didn’t startle at the sound, at the feeling of the wards pressing in on her. 

“Your boyfriend is here.” Draco is looking towards the entrance, bored as ever, and she follows his gaze. A slumped figure lay there, dazed. 

Hermione scoffed. “Not my boyfriend.” The words are sour under her breath and she doesn’t see the look the blond gives her because she’s glued to the book again. Draco looks to the entrance, where Ron Weasley is slowly sitting up; his hair looks fried and he’s got a frown on his face as he stares at the entryway to the restricted section. 

“Whatever he is, he’s going to try again.” Draco muttered, watching Hermione for a reaction. 

“Good.” she replied, still reading. She doesn’t realize that she’s warping the image of herself in the Slytherin’s mind, melting from a girl that’s too pure to one marred with something else. 

The wards snapped, forcing Ron away from the entrance once more, but it wasn’t as extreme the second time because he didn’t try to  _ run _ through. “‘Mione! Come out here.”

Hermione looked up, pen hanging from her mouth as she assessed the situation. “This wasn’t on the schedule.” she muttered, more to herself than anyone but Draco hid the smirk behind his hand all the same. She stood up and walked to the entrance, but she didn't walk through the barrier. “What is it Ron?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She blinked, slowly, bored. “About?” she bobbed her head with the word, insinuating for him to finish the sentence. 

Ron’s eyes slid over her shoulder, noticed Draco ignoring them and focusing on the book in his lap. “Can we go somewhere?” he whispered the question, looking pointedly at the blond. 

Hermione followed Ron’s gaze. “He doesn’t give a shit” she crossed her arms, fighting with old Hermione. 

_ Forgive him. _

**Fuck off.**

“‘Mione he’s  _ Malfoy” _ the statement reminds her that she’s forgotten the past. But really, she doesn’t care that  _ he’s _ there to hear whatever storm of shit that’s about to rain down upon Ron. She finds caring too taxing these days. 

She watched Ron, waiting for him to continue, but when he refused, she stepped through the barrier and across the library to the opposite wall. “What?”

Ron searched her face before clasping his hands in front of himself, staring at his knuckles. “I wanted to apologize” he stared at his feet. “For uh” he met her eyes, which stared back at him, unblinking, almost bored. “The thing with, er-uh, Bellatrix.” he was staring at  _ her _ shoes now. 

“Okay.” 

He looked up, surprised. “Okay?” 

“Yes, Ron,  _ okay” _ she enunciated the word. Bitchy, yeah, but she didn’t really care. 

He looked happy, almost immediately. “Really?”

Hermione only nodded. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Do you uh, wanna go to lunch? Catch up?” 

She raised her eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of something right now, with my research.” 

_ There’s no real research. _

**Draco is the research.**

_ That’s just a bonus. _

His hand reaches out, grasps her arm. She freezes. “‘Mione, please” he’s pulling her arm away from her stomach, uncrossing them both. “I wanna fix things” his other hand is reaching for the edge of her sleeve and she yanks away. 

“You will not  _ touch _ me, Ron Weasley” her voice is a venomous hiss and old Hermione is screaming in her ears to stop.

He reaches out again, for her left arm. “‘Mione, please” he’s backing her into the wall and she itches to punch him. “It-it doesn’t bother me anymore!” She darted around him, backing towards the restricted section; a safe haven from Ron Weasley. He spun around, arm outstretched and it’s too close. She stepped backwards, over the threshold and Ron’s face fell. “Hermione, I swear, it doesn’t bother me!” It's his first complete sentence that lacks a stutter. 

“It bothers  _ me _ , Ron” she snapped at him, wanting to step through the barrier just to hex him. There’s a block on magic in the restricted section of the library and it used to bring her comfort but now she wants to strangle whoever came up with the idea. “Did you ever stop to ask yourself that?” 

“‘Mione,  _ please, _ we can work this out!”

She bristled. “For  _ fucks sake, _ I don’t want it to.” That stops him, freezes him, and he’s heartbroken and Old Hermione almost reaches out. But she doesn’t. Her voice is cold. “I’ve moved on, you can do the same.” She’s fracturing him, snapping him in half but to her it’s just about getting even. It’s only fair she break him as he did her. Forgiveness is a long ways off. 

Ron looks behind her, but Draco is still reading, pretending the shitshow happening in front of him doesn’t exist. His voice is low and angry when he speaks. “With who?” Ron hadn’t failed to notice Hermione’s ease in being around the Slytherin-it was suspicious after everything that's happened over the years. She’d wondered herself how the fuck that had happened, but she figures it’s the danger. The choice of ignoring the night of the drawing room and moving on with her life. It’s a lot of things and it doesn’t make sense. 

“That’s none of your fucking business” 

“It’s him, innit?” Ron’s eyes are on Draco and he’s murderous. “It’s Malfoy”

**Not yet.**

_ Shut up. _

Hermione laughed, half at her mental argument and half at Ron. “oh  _ definitely _ , the prince of Slytherin is fucking a  _ mudblood.” _ The word makes Ron freeze but she keeps going. “Do you even  _ hear _ yourself?” she knows that Malfoy would never continue the game in the club if he knew it was her, the words flow easily. They’re the truth. 

Ron’s face is unreadable now. “This isn’t you.”

“Who should I be?” her voice is dangerous again. “The stupid little girl you used to order around? The one that waited years for you to just toss her away like garbage once things got tough? The one that was in love with you?” She’s kept herself from yelling and she’s proud. “Who do you want me to be?”

“Hermione Granger.” 

She scoffs, curtsies towards him. “At your  _ fucking _ service.” her tone is poison. 

Ron only stares at her a moment before turning on his heel and walking towards the door. “You’re going to regret this, ‘Mione.” it’s said over his shoulder and once he turns the corner she laughs.  _ She laughs.  _ She keeps laughing and she’s leaning against the bookshelves and it’s warped into a silent laugh that hurts her stomach because it’s so goddamn funny and not at all, all at the same time. 

She’s being self destructive and she fucking loathes it and loves it all at the same time because for once, she can feel something other than desolation. 

“Prince of Slytherin is a new one”

She looks back and he’s watching her, a leatherbound book loose in his hands. He’s still leaning over his knees like he does when he reads and Hermione blinks. She’d forgotten he was there.“Shut the fuck up.” 

He raised his hands in mock surrender, book hanging loose from one hand. “Don’t come after _me_ now.” it’s teasing and bratty and she wants to slap him. 

**I already am, you just don’t know it** . 

_ Shut the fuck up.  _

**He can’t hear us.**

_ We have to say something now. _

“It’s not on the schedule for today.” she muttered, stalking over and sitting down on her side of the bench. 

Draco scoffs and she swears she can hear him laugh behind the noise. 

It’s silent for a long while. They don’t speak, focusing on their own research. Neither realize that the sun has long set, their pages lit by torchlight. Hermione feels eyes on her, and she shivers, staring down at her book. Ignores the feeling, knows she’s probably hallucinating it. A side effect of war. The flutter of pages is the only thing that breaks up the silence. She chews on the end of her pen as she reads, absentmindedly running it over her lips, dragging it the same way he had in Moderne. The memory is fresh, and every time she closes her eyes, she sees grey eyes, pupils dilated. Flushed cheeks. 

A book slams shut and she jolts up, looking around, hand reaching for her wand. She scans the bookshelves, nothing. Hermione looks to the other side of the bench, and he’s staring at her. 

“What?” she practically snarls it. 

He swallows, fingers running down the spine of the book he’d just slammed shut. He shook his head, as if to right himself, and the book was back open, his eyes glued to the pages as if he’d been caught doing something he had no business doing. 

She rolled her eyes, glanced at the clock mounted above the doorway. Almost eleven. The fatigue hit her all at once, and she packed up her things, stuffing them in her bag, checked the page number of the book and put it back on the shelf. It couldn’t leave the restricted section; she’d be back for it soon enough. 

She was almost out the door when she heard him. 

“Granger”

Hermione stopped, frozen. Couldn’t turn around. She just waited, staring at the door-it was  _ so close _ . She almost thought she’d hallucinated his voice by the stretch of silence that fell over her. But then he spoke, quiet, if she wasn’t listening, she would have missed it. 

“Careful.”

She nodded without turning around and bolted. 

_ Does he know? _

She was gone before he could finish.  _ Careful with Weasley. _

The hallways were too long, too empty, the ghosts were crowding her and there was no way to tell if they were real. Fred stared at her from the ceiling, body shredded with shrapnel. Tonks waltzed through a wall with a theatrical flourish. The scar on her arm burned with poison long gone and she swears she can see Dumbledore watching her from a doorway that hadn’t been there before. Snape’s dead eyes watch from behind greasy locks of hair as he slithers along the wall, gliding as he always had. 

She finds the Room of Requirement to her left and throws herself inside. The memories are crowding her and nothing feels real. She can’t tell anymore because it’s just her alone in her mind, Old and New are gone. It’s a downpour of all the things she’s been ignoring and she feels like she’s drowning. 

The walls are plain; a dark grey with empty portrait frames. There’s a table set with expensive looking china glassware spanning the length of the room. The floors are a dark hardwood stained with blood long dried and a grand chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It’s the drawing room from Malfoy manor and she isn’t in her own head so she doesn’t bother to feel scared or unerved or anything else because she’s too busy drowning in anger. Part of her wonders why the Room showed her this, gave her the one thing she can’t tattoo over but the anger overrides it, makes her forget there was ever a question to ask. 

Hermione’s bag drops to the floor and her hands are on the plates before she has a plan and then she’s throwing things, breaking porcelain against the walls, the floor, the table. The shards crunch and break under her feet but she doesn’t care, doesn’t see, because she’s crying for the first time since returning home from war. 

The door opens and she doesn’t notice, no she’s too busy thinking of new ways to destroy the china as she throws what’s in her arms. The tears blur everything and she doesn’t care because it’s the room of requirement and it’ll fix itself the minute she leaves. 

“Hermione!” 

She stops, freezes, her arms go slack and the china she’d been holding smashes on the floor. She blinks, one, two, three times and turns. It’s Harry and he’s confused, angry, and  _ sad? _ There’s nothing in her mind, nothing telling her to make a move and her arm is burning with memories and she wants to lie down in the mess she’s made and relish the pain.

“What are you doing?” he says it like he doesn’t believe she’s in front of him.

She’s clear headed for a moment, surveys the mess. Blinks. “Anger management.” 

Harry moves like he wants to rush towards her, pull her into a hug, but he stops when she flinches away; it’s instinct, not a true reaction, but she’s glad he doesn’t come any closer. “Ron told me” She wants to laugh, scoff, roll her eyes because  _ of course he did _ but she settles for watching Harry. “Hermione, I’m sorry.” the Marauder’s Map is loose in his hand. He’d been watching her. 

“For what?”

His eyes skim over the room. “Not knowing what to say...” It’s the first thing she’s happy to hear him admit and she calms down. “...for not leaving you alone when you asked”

For some reason she feels the need to explain. “I can’t take it.” she crossed her arms, uncrossed them, shoved her hands in her robe pockets. “I hate the looks they give me. It’s all of them” she catches his eye. “You, Ginny, Ron... All of you look at me like I’m going to-” she sweeps a stack of plates off the table and they crash into pieces at her feet, the crash speaking for her. 

“We’re just worried about you” Harry’s voice was soft. “We’ve always worried about you”

“That’s why I stayed away, Harry. You aren’t going to be there to save me every time. I had to grow up.” Hermione sighed, kicked a piece of glass. “I’ve realized I relied on you and Ron too much.”  _ Realized who I am without you. _

Harry’s broken just like the porcelain on the floor. “You can always rely on us, Hermione, it’s been the three of us for years.” 

Hermione met his eyes. “I couldn’t rely on him after Bellatrix and you know it” she sighed, leaned against the table. “He pulled away when I needed it the most, Harry. You two didn’t go through that, I’m glad you didn’t but you don’t know the half of it.” 

Harry’s silent, thinking, standing with his arms crossed. Looking around at the carnage. “Can we start over then?” he raised his eyes to Hermione. “Or try to?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do this entire time, Harry” her smile is slow. “You guys just-throw me off. Reset the progress” 

Harry nodded. “Can I walk you back to the common room? Or are you still-” he slid a plate off the table and it crashed to the floor. 

Hermione laughed-it was short, but Harry relaxed all the same. “I think I’m done for now.”


	4. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What if they don’t want to be found?” 

_“You like him”_ Eliza’s tone is awed and she’s looking at her with an eyebrow raised as they talk in the bathroom, Hermione perched on the edge of the tub, watching her friend in the mirror as she swipes brushes across her skin. 

Hermione had just told her the thing that’s been eating at her and she had no idea what to think. 

“All I said is that I know who he is”

Eliza turns to face her. “Yeah, and you would never be playing with him if there wasn’t _something_ already there” She gestured to Hermione. “You told me yourself that you don’t like your old friends-aside from me-seeing you like _this_ ” tonight, the witch is wearing a deep blue slip dress. Satin. “I know you-the new you. You wouldn’t risk it if you didn’t” 

Hermione is silent. Doesn’t know how to tell her friend that yes, she knows _exactly_ why she’s playing the game. 

“I see you two together, the spark is there” Eliza’s back looking in the mirror. “What’s stopping you?”

She scoffs. “I don’t know-He’s the school bully? I punched him in the face four years ago. I don’t see him wanting me after he figures out who I am” 

“He teased you, you punched him, sounds like every other schoolyard crush in history” Eliza’s swiping a clear gloss over her lips. “I’m sure he’s changed now too” she turned toward Hermione with that godforsaken straightener of hers. “What’s he like? I wanna know”

Hermione sat for a moment, thinking while Eliza started on the rat’s nest she called her hair. “He was a pompous jerk when we were younger” she stopped, wondering how to say things without involving the wizard world. “He calmed down when his family forced him into a bad spot” she didn’t add anything else. She knew about him breaking down in the bathroom, saw how sick he looked that year. “Turned himself around after that, I suppose. Kind of.” _Because he’s on probation, dumbass._

Eliza is leaning into her face. “Jean,” it’s the old nickname again. “I don’t want his life story, I want to know what he’s _like”_

She can see the library in her mind. “We’re working on the same research, I see him often” she’d told Eliza she was gone during the week for university. Research wasn’t that far from the truth. 

Eliza stilled. “And he hasn’t noticed anything?”

“Not that I can tell, but he’s always seen me as the girl that’s always reading and being a knowitall” Hermione shrugged. “But I think he’s realizing that _everyone_ is different now”

“You wanna expand on that?” there’s a comb running through Hermione’s hair as Eliza talks. 

“I uh, yelled at my ex boyfriend in front of him?”

“Ex boyfriend, huh? Was it that guy, Harry?”

She snorted. “God no, his name is Ron and he’s-he used to be the sweetest boy, but-” her eyes went to her scar. “After this-” Hermione waved her left arm. “He wouldn’t touch me” she sighed, stifling a laugh. “We were like highschool sweethearts, he’s met my parents and I swore we were going to get married” 

Eliza is silent next to her, still trying to tame the hair. 

“I told Ron that I moved on, and he got this look in his eyes, like he was going to-” she trailed off. “He thought I moved on with _him_ and I laughed in his face, said something along the lines of ‘the richest kid in school isn’t fucking the trash’ and Ron ran off.” Hermione wasn’t going to say anything about purebloods and not, it’d confuse Eliza. “Because that’s what he always said-that I was poor trash, but he hasn’t said anything like that in years.” she shrugged, receiving a flick on the ear for moving. “He’s like royalty, I guess. It’s one of those things where you’d have to have been there for all of it” 

“And this guy-does he have a _name?”_

Hermione sighed. “He does, yeah.” 

“Don’t make me beg, now” Eliza’s tone is teasing.

“Draco” she said, quiet. 

Eliza nodded above her, mouthing the name. “So what’s he like now?”

Hermione looked up at her friend. “You’re going to think I’ve gone off the deep end”

* * *

He stood next to the railing with Blaise, watching the crowd, the door, for _her._ Blaise insisted on seeing her, said she didn’t sound real _'a Ravenclaw covered in tattoos? That doesn’t sound right mate.'_ Draco had just shrugged, ignored him, because he couldn’t imagine _anyone_ at Hogwarts covered in tattoos. A voice at the back of his head yelled at him, insisting she was messing with him, but Draco refused to believe it. 

He sat in the great hall every evening, save for Sundays and Fridays, watching the tables-all of them-for a flash of dark ink and long legs but he’d run out of luck, the yearbook search didn’t yield any results because the last records the school kept were old, from his fifth year. Everyone had changed. He’d lie awake at night, thinking about his classmates, wondering who she could be. 

“Excuse me, _gentlemen"_ was said in a female voice and both Draco and Blaise spun at the sound. It was the blonde from the other night, the one _she_ was always leaving with. He looked behind her, at the stairs leading down to the main floor but she wasn’t there. 

“And _who_ is this?” Blaise was smiling and letting his eyes drag over the woman’s baby blue dress. Her blonde hair reached low on her waist, half up half down. A silver lace mask over her eyes.

The girl smiled, checking out Blaise, then Draco, but not as extremely. “I’ve been sent up here by our _mutual friend"_

Blaise tilted his head towards Draco. “So she _is_ real… Or did you pay her to do this?” 

“Oh she’s _very_ real” The blonde answered for Draco, her voice rolling seductively over his ears. “I’ve been sent up here for some recon” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And what does that entail?”

The blonde stepped further into the room, ignoring his question. “I’m Eliza,” she shook his hand, turned to the other Slytherin, shook his hand before turning back to Draco. “I’m to invite both of you downstairs for drinks” she quirked an eyebrow, eyes darting to the door. 

“What is this?”

Eliza’s next to the stairs, hand on the rail. “Oh come on, you know questions like that are against the rules” she pointed at Blaise “you too, let’s go.” 

And then Eliza was gone. 

Blaise was stuck standing there, openmouthed. “What the hell was that?” 

Draco blinked. “Part of the game,” he muttered, walking towards the stairs. “Come on” he pulled Blaise with him. He didn’t want to, but he had to play. 

Eliza was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, picking at her fingernails like she was bored out of her mind. Her blue eyes gleamed when she saw them coming towards her. “About time, boys” she grabbed Blaise’s hand and led him towards the bar. “We’re going to have some fun tonight!” 

Draco’s mind was filled with questions, too many to ask. So he just followed Eliza and Blaise. He was yanked out of his thoughts by Blaise whispering in his ear once they reached the bar. “I don’t know what’s going on but I _like_ it” 

“What are you two drinking?” Eliza turned to them, looking at them expectantly. 

“Whiskey” Blaise answered, smirking. 

Eliza narrowed her eyes. “Oh come on that’s _boring,_ are you sure?”

“What would the lady suggest?” Blaise was laying it on thick and Draco wanted to throw up. 

Eliza shushed him with a motion and leaned over the bar before whispering a drink order. “It’s on me” she stopped Blaise when he reached into his jacket for his wallet. “and our mutual friend” she winked at Draco, laughing when he raised an eyebrow at her. 

Four drinks were set on the bartop, a variety of colors and Eliza passed one to Blaize, two to Draco and kept one. “Why’s he get two?” Blaise asked, smelling his drink and giving it a strange look. 

“He’s going back upstairs” Eliza drawled, stirring her drink and taking a sip. “Go on, don’t keep her waiting” she shooed him away, smiling. 

All Draco got was a surprised look from Blaise before he was turning, walking back upstairs. The drinks were colorful, garnished with fruit and they’re something he would never think to try. He forgot all about them when he stepped into the room and saw _her_ leaning over the railing, surveying the people below. He stood there, silent a moment, watching her. She was wearing another slip dress, dark blue. It fit her well, tight in all the right places.

“Enjoying the view?” there’s a smugness in her tone and he set the drinks down on the small table between the benches. 

“I am” he replied, stepping behind her and trailing a finger over her shoulder, tracing the shape of a thick lined tattoo with an avian likeness. 

She turned around to face him, leaning back against the railing. She let her eyes flit across his features, biting her lip. Her hands were on the railing at her sides. “I hear you’ve been looking for me” she mused, eyes on the collar of his shirt. It’s not buttoned up all the way and she can see his collarbones. 

Draco reached out a hand, trailing his fingers along another tattoo-a constellation; Leo. “You’ve piqued my interest” he met her eyes, a flash of emotion was there, but he can’t tell what it is. 

She pushed away from the railing, forcing him to walk backwards until his legs hit the booth. “Oh _really?"_ she breathed, trailing a hand up his chest before pushing him backwards to sit. His fall into the black velvet was less than graceful. She stepped between his legs, looking down at him. Her eyes were dark behind her mask and he wanted the damn thing gone. “Any guesses?” she let her hand cradle his jaw, tracing over his cheek with her thumb. 

He leaned into her touch, not even noticing he was doing it. “Not a one” it’s the truth and it’s giving him hell. 

She hummed, smirking. “I expected more, I have to admit” she smiled. “You were always so smart, Draco” 

He stilled at his name. Grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his face, narrowing his eyes. 

She just laughed, stepping back from between his legs to pick up one of the drinks. “You hardly blend in at Hogwarts” her eyes stayed on him as she took a drink. 

“You knew who I was the whole time?”

She shook her head, popped one of the cherries from the drink in her mouth, eyeing him a moment. “Not the first time” she shrugged, working her mouth a moment before pulling out a cherry stem tied in a knot. _She’s good with her mouth._ She spun the stem between her fingers, eyes on it instead of him. “But I figured it out” she took another drink before setting the glass on the table, dropping the stem inside. “Wasn’t too difficult”

He caught her arm once more. “And how is that fair?”

She hummed, looking down at him. “It’s not _supposed_ to be fair” 

Draco pulled her down and she landed across his lap. _She’s so close_ . “Is this part of your game?” it’s low and has an edge when he asks and she’s driving him nuts because she’s _smirking_ at him and it’s not a reaction he gets often from strangers-usually women would blush, hide from him, but not her. She threw an arm around his shoulders, getting comfortable. He settled his hands on her hips, tracing patterns into the smooth fabric of her slip of a dress. 

She pouted, barely touching the nape of his neck with her fingertips. “Oh come on _Draco_ ” his name sounds _so right_ in her voice. She threaded her fingers through the hair on the back of his head and pulled, tilting his head back to bare his throat. “Don’t you want to play?” it’s whispered into his ear and she sounds downright _dangerous._

He swallowed, forcing his breathing to stay even as she pulled back to look at him. Her hand was still keeping his head tilted back. “How do I win?” 

She released him, smoothing his hair out. “You get one guess. If it’s right-” she let her nails trail along the side of his neck, eliciting a shiver from him. 

“And if I’m wrong?”

“Then the game’s over” it’s nonchalant and she’s tracing shapes into his neck. “You never find out”

He pulled her closer, tighter against him. “I take it this is nonnegotiable?”

She nods. “You better guess right.” her breath tickles his ear. It’s not the answer he wanted. 

“Can I ask questions then?”

She ran her hand through his hair, head leaned against his shoulder. “If you can ask without stuttering.”

“What- _fuck_ ” her lips are on his pulsepoint and his mind is blank. 

She pulled away, hand still running through his hair. The other is settled on his chest. “Didn’t get very far with that one” she’s teasing him and he hates it but he wants _more._

He tries again. “Do we-” she tugged lightly on his belt, eliciting a surprised gasp. 

“You _really_ aren’t good at this game” she unwound from his shoulders, picked up the drinks, handed him one. “You’re blushing again.”Draco turned from her after accepting the drink-he didn’t want it, because it meant he had to stop touching her, but the alcohol might settle his nerves. She used her free hand to tilt his head to face her again, biting her lip as she looked at him. “I like it, don’t hide.” she let him go and he drank half his glass.

He watched her take a sip and set her glass down on the table. “And what happens if I don’t want to play?”

“Are you worried you’ll lose?” she was touching him again, trailing her fingertip along the seam of his shirt. 

He set his drink down, traced a finger up her arm, her shoulder, her neck. “What’s stopping me from just taking this off?” he traced the edge of the mask. 

She tilted her head, let her hand weave itself into his hair again and pulled his head back, _hard._ Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him grit his teeth. “That’s against the rules” she shook her head, using her other hand to move his. “Aren’t you going to be a _good boy_ for me?” A shiver rolled over his skin and she smirked. “I don’t like brats, you know” 

He swallowed, watching her. No woman has _ever_ treated him like this and he’s excited and scared and plenty of other things. “If I’m not?”

“You’ll be punished” she said it like it was obvious and he had no idea what that entailed but _fuck_ . “Do you _want_ me to punish you?”

He shook his head, slowly, almost imperceptibly, but she could feel it through the grip on his hair. 

“Be a good boy Draco, I know you can be” she was in his ear again, and she released her grip on his hair. “Don’t disappoint me” 

He was flustered, blushing, eyes dark with lust. “What do I call you?” he tightened his grip on her hips, pulling her closer. “I need _something."_

She rolled her hips against him, smiling when he closed his eyes for a moment. “Call me Jean”

His eyes snapped to hers. “Jean?”

“It’s what my friends call me” her touch is featherlight on the hollow of his neck. “Are we friends?” it’s teasing with a hint of something else. 

He stared at her, eyes pausing on her lips. Nodded. “Whatever you want” he breathed, bringing one hand up from her waist to the middle of her back, leaning forward. 

“Uh-uh-uh” she chided, a finger on his lips. “What did I tell you about asking?”

He narrowed his eyes, put off, but he gave in anyway because he couldn’t walk away. “Can I kiss you?” 

She trailed her fingers along his jaw. “What’s the magic word?” her voice is light and teasing and she’s having too much fun with this.

He glared at her. “There are thousands of magic words” he wound her hair between his fingers, pulling slightly, playing with it-it’d been treated with a smoothing charm and something else that his mother probably hoarded. “Which one do you want?”

She moved so she was straddling him and used his hair to pull his head back once more. She leaned in close, breath cooling on his neck. “The magic word-” she let her tongue follow a tendon in his neck, to his ear. “-is _please."_ she leaned back, too far away for his liking. Draco settled his hands on her hips, holding her there. 

“Please?” he repeated it, immediately hating himself. 

“Please _what?"_ her hands were on his chest, not moving. 

He took a deep breath, “Can I _please_ kiss you?” it sounds desperate and he hates it but it did something to her. 

Jean smirked at him. “I like it when you beg” she brought her hand to his jaw. “Yes, you may”

He didn’t have a chance to hate her for making him beg because he could finally kiss her, which wasn’t all he wanted but it was enough. He brought one hand up to her neck, holding her while he went in, and _merlin._ It was light at first, tentative and then that was gone and he was kissing her hard. She ran her tongue over his teeth, her hands buried themselves into his hair and his shoulder, holding him close. 

They pulled apart for air and he hated it, moved her hair away from her neck, sucked at the skin and soothing it with his tongue. Jean tilted her head so he could have more access and fucking hell she was like putty in his hands now. He let one hand move from her waist to her ass and squeezed, eliciting a moan of a sigh and that spurred him on. He went back to her mouth and she was needy, pressing their lips together so hard he thought they’d bruise. 

When they pulled apart the second time, neither could catch their breath and his hair was a disaster. She was flushed and he could see why she said she liked him when he was blushing because _he_ did that to her. She brushed the hair out of his eyes, a small smile on her face. “I knew you’d be good at that” she traced the shell of his ear and he shivered at the touch. She looked down at his watch, twisting his wrist so she could read it. “I have to go now” her voice was soft, apologetic, almost like she didn’t want to leave either.

“Why?” he held her closer, meeting her eyes. “Why do you always run off?” he sounds desperate and he’ll hate himself for it later but she’s his only concern. 

She ran her hand through his hair, smoothing it out. “I like the chase” she cradled his jaw, thumbing his cheek before standing. “I’ll see you tomorrow”

“What?”

“Oh I always see you” she finished her drink. “you just don’t see me” 

He was staring at her, thinking, mind buzzing with who he sees on the regular but can’t pull a name from his mind. None seem likely enough. She was at the stairs, watching him. 

“Goodbye, Draco” 

And then she was gone again. 

* * *

It was becoming routine. Sundays were spent in the library, hiding from her friends. She was on better terms with Harry, yes, but Ron was always staring at her like she’d just set his grandmother on fire and Ginny wanted to _talk_ about everything-their lives, boys, and god knows what else. 

The bench was empty when she got there. _He’s probably trying to find you._ She shrugged off the disappointment. It was probably best she stayed away from Draco. Having him so close was a danger to the game. She might say something stupid and have the whole thing come toppling down. She’d stayed up late at night, wondering how angry he’ll be if he guessed right and it’s her, a mudblood witch he’s hated for years, but Hermione was confident that he wouldn’t guess it’s her. 

There’s no way. 

She finished the book on Legilimency, filed away the notes. Started one on Occlumency. She was intent on learning the things she wouldn’t in class. Her grades were scraping the bottom of the barrel, but she didn’t care. Her teachers had shown concern, but she’d just brush it off _'No professor, I’m doing fine, I’ll catch up'_ _yeah fucking right._

At dinner, the day after the club, she’d watched Draco. It was almost laughable how frustrated he looked. He’d eye the Ravenclaw table, the Hufflepuff table, and skim over the Gryffindor table. Blaise would say something every once in a while that would end with a cold glare. Hermione knew Blaise knew _something_ but he hadn’t seen her and she wanted to keep it that way. She’d never spoken to Zabini, hardly knew anything of him, so he might see something Draco doesn’t if she happens to talk to him in the club. He was objective. Draco wasn’t, not really. Their hatred for each other would cloud his thought process; he’d never guess it was her. 

It was almost noon when he thundered in, clothes wrinkled and his hair wild. Not a word was said as he pulled books from the shelves, stacking them next to his side of the bench. A glance his way told Hermione that he was in no shape to get anything done. Draco was staring down at the glossary of a text, unmoving. 

She focused on her reading again, shook her head. _It’s kind of funny how bothered he is._ She almost laughed, but stifled it with a cough. Bad idea, because he was looking at her now. 

“Who do you go to the clubs with?”

Hermione sighed and looked at him, feigning boredom. “Why does it matter? I doubt you know any of them” _fuck fuck fuck_

 _“Granger.”_ he’s angry and it’d be scary if she wasn’t aware of what he was doing. 

She scoffed. “My friends from the muggle world” she shrugged. 

“You hang out with muggles?”

Hermione glared at him. “Yes, Malfoy, the mudblood hangs out with muggles” she looked down at her pages. “Fitting, isn’t it?” 

He’s quiet for a long while, much too long. She doesn’t look up but she can feel him looking at her. “Do you know anyone at Hogwarts with tattoos?”

“Aside from you? No, not really” when she looks up he’s staring at her, confused. Hermione tapped her left arm, giving him a look. Draco’s own eyes went to the sleeve hiding his dark mark, like he’d forgotten it was even there. “What game are you playing at?” _you dumbass._

He stared at her, shock in his eyes for a split second, but she knew to watch for it. “I’m trying to find someone” 

“What if they don’t want to be found?” 

That stops him, and then he’s staring straight through her. 

She shook her head, went back to reading and taking notes. It’s silent and she can’t feel his eyes on her anymore. It goes on like that for hours, a strange silence that neither will leave because Hermione is safe from prying eyes behind the wards and he’s busy with research. Her notebook is three pages fuller and her hand is cramping, but she continues on. Draco is annotating something of his own and she doesn’t try to see what it is even though she _really_ wants to. 

Everything is fine and normal and then her cell phone goes off in her bag. 

Draco stares at the bag like it’s just bit him, and Hermione is frozen. She hadn’t turned it off, she’d forgotten all about it. It’s a red nokia and she wants to throw it out the window but she knows that won’t do anything. 

Slowly, she pulls it out, checks the caller ID. _Eliza._

“Hello?” she raises it to her ear, completely ignoring the look Draco is giving her. He’s probably never seen a phone outside of muggle studies, let alone a _cell phone._

_"Hermione! I know you told me not to call unless it’s an emergency-”_

“What is it?” she shot a look at Draco, and he was staring at her like she was an alien. Maybe she was. 

_“I lost my necklace at the club Friday! It was my grandmother’s!”_

Hermione closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Eliza, you weren’t _wearing it._ ” she sighed. “It’s probably in your dresser or at my house.” she opened her eyes, suddenly remembering she wasn’t alone. 

_“Can I go over and check? I’ve been losing my mind for the past two days!”_

“You know where the key is” Hermione sighed, pulled the phone away from her ear to look at the screen. “I have to go, I’m in the middle of a research project” she knew her friend would understand. Hopefully. Maybe. 

_"He’s there? Now?_ ”

“Yes, it’s coming along” Hermione wanted to floo back to her house and strangle Eliza. “I’ll talk to you later, Eliza” _You’ve said her name twice now! She said she introduced herself!_ Fucking idiot. 

_"Don’t blow this! Good luck_ ”

Hermione threw the phone down and sighed, hoping to return to her reading. 

“I thought there was a ban on muggle technology at Hogwarts” 

The witch side eyed him. “It’s a phone, not a bomb” 

“It’s against the rules, Granger” _fuck shit fuck_

Hermione faced him. “And when has playing by the rules _ever_ worked out?” it’s New Hermione and she needs to tone it down because it’s almost the voice she uses at the club. 

Draco eyed her, jaw ticking. “So what was that about?” It sounds painful because he has to play nice for the sake of information. 

“She thought she lost something” _back to the book, pretend he isn’t there._

“This is one of your club friends?”

Hermione looked up. _You should be running, you idiot._ “Interested in muggles now?”

That shut him up. 

And then the phone is ringing on the bench between them and it’s in his hand. He’s fast and it’s at his ear and Hermione is seething. “Hello?” he says it much too easily and Hermione wants to kill him. Wants to kill cell phone manufacturers for making them so easy to figure out. Red button, green button. Stupid stupid stupid. 

There’s a pause, and then he eyed Hermione. _Did Eliza slip up?_

“I wanted to see what Granger’s friends were like. She doesn’t have many” it’s cool and condescending and she wants to hex him. “You can call me Draco.”

Another pause, and his face goes cold at whatever Eliza tells him. 

“You know both of them, then” it’s a statement and Hermione knows Draco’s figured out it’s the same Eliza. 

It’s quiet once more and he hands Hermione the phone, a strange look on his face. 

“Eliza, where was it?” 

_“I didn’t think he’d answer your phone”_

Hermione’s eyes went to Draco. “Yes, well I’m glad you found it” Draco can’t know they’re talking about him. It’d topple the game like a deck of cards. 

" _I said he wasn’t being a very good boy, do you think that was too much?"_ there’s a laugh on the line and Hermione stifled her own. 

" _Of course_ , I’ll see you soon” she pocketed the phone, glaring at Draco. “It’s rude to take things that aren’t yours, Malfoy” 

He stared at her, scrutinized her face. “How do you know her?” he nods at the phone

“She’s my neighbor” 

He nods and goes back to his book, for a few seconds. “So you don’t go to the clubs with anyone at Hogwarts?” 

Hermione shook her head. “No, they’re too-” she stopped herself. “No.” _her friends are too familiar, too soft, would hate everything about the club scene._

Draco hummed. 

She left the library early because the anxiety over Draco Malfoy figuring out that it's her is too much. The great hall was bustling with activity, people eating and chattering about quidditch-she’d almost forgotten that the world was moving on. Hermione sat down next to Ginny, who smiled and offered her a pastry from Hogsmeade. She declined and served herself from the table, barely noticing when Malfoy himself snuck into the hall. 

It was nice, almost the same, but Ron wasn’t speaking-too busy stuffing his face with chicken wings and Harry was talking to a seventh year about astronomy. Ginny was talking to Neville about Luna, and she was left to observe everyone. The Hufflepuff table was in higher spirits, and the Ravenclaw table looked to be studying, a few girls would look up every once in a while, as if they’d just been pinched. 

Her eyes reached the Slytherin table and they looked normal enough, save for Malfoy, who was focused on the other tables, his lips whispering a spell. Hermione followed his gaze and saw a robe yank up on a girl’s wrist. _He’s cheating._

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a slip of paper and a quill. She made sure to disguise her handwriting- just to be safe- and sent the note flying around the room before it hit Malfoy in the cheek. He glared around, looking for the culprit before unfolding the note. He froze while reading it, staring down at the words before looking around the room. Hermione laughed when he tried using a spell to return the parchment to whoever sent it and it only swooped around the table before stopping in front of him again. Smart, but not smart enough.


	5. Bromance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t mind him, he’s just mad he’s never made out with a Quidditch player.”

Instead of going to Astronomy, she snuck out. 

It wasn’t like her, but after the fuckup in the library, she needed something to cover the tattoos. Anyone with half a brain would notice that she always wore long sleeves and jeans. And Draco wasn’t an idiot-he’d keep pushing, keep looking. 

Frankly, she was lucky he was so oblivious. 

He still thought of her as Hermione Granger: swot, prude, rule follower. 

Like everyone else. 

In Diagon Alley, she left her hair loose around her face, wandered the shops. She was mostly window shopping, unsure of what to even  _ look _ for. Tattoos weren’t that common in the wizarding world-the stigma from the dark mark making them a bigger rarity than before. Hermione knew Sirius had tattoos, but he’d gotten those to spite his family. Outside of a rebellious dead friend and the paroled death eaters, she hadn’t seen many. 

Giving up on her idea of finding something to hide the ink, Hermione wandered into Madam Malkin’s. She didn’t have anything better to do anyway. Unless she wanted to try and go to Astronomy. -Which she didn’t. At all. It was a shared class between Slytherin and Gryffindor where tensions ran high. House prejudice was more extreme than ever. Especially since all the eighth years were living together in some kind of fucked up commune. 

Even after being in the wizarding world for eight years, she never got tired of the fashion. Extravagant robes, tailored dresses fit for royalty. But here, they were for regular occasions, like weddings and dinner parties -should she be invited to one. The yule ball had been the last occasion to warrant such a thing, and back then, she’d been trying to catch Ron’s attention. 

The entire ordeal left a sour taste in her mouth, and though she appreciated the work put into the gowns, she’d never wear one. Maybe if things were different, if things had stayed normal, she’d be fine with wearing something fit for a queen, but if she was being honest with herself, she liked to show a bit of leg now.  _ Maybe even a shoulder if she was feeling ballsy.  _

The wizarding world had never been salacious. She hadn’t, either.  _ Before.  _

But now, well she found herself a bit of a showoff. The experiences in the club-well those told her how desirable she was, how beautiful she could be. It wasn’t objectifying herself, it was something else. 

She’d accepted herself. 

“Hermione?” 

Turning on her heel, she saw a flash of blonde and pastel colors, a charmed nametag with the shop’s logo. “Lavender?”

The witch forced a smile. “Lovely to see you again!” 

Glancing around, Hermione didn’t see any other patrons, or workers. “I didn’t know you worked here,” she smiled, hoping to convey something other than pain across her features. This was far from comfortable, running into Ron’s ex. It was downright awkward. “It’s good to see you too.”

They stood in a strange silence, smiling at each other to hide true emotions for far too long. 

“Oh! Sorry-” Lavender shook her head at herself. “Can I help you find anything?” 

“I was just looking mostly.” Hermione let her gaze travel across a rack of fine silks. “I don’t see many galas in my future.”

Lavender pursed her lips and surveyed Hermione, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Can I just say something?”

Frozen by the words, Hermione could only nod.  _ What the fuck- _

“I’m sorry for the way I acted in school, I know I was kind of a-” Lavender made a circling motion near her head. “-well I was a downright menace at times. Sorry about that. I’ve been trying this therapy thing.”

_ Did she just hear that?  _ Hermione blinked a few times, her mouth hanging slightly agape in surprise. “Oh, uh, it’s fine?” it came out as more of a question and she wanted to slap herself. “Really, past in the past and all.”

Lavender nodded. “Okay... okay, great.” she straightened, gestured towards the far end of the shop. “I have something in the back you might like?”

She shrugged, followed Lavender through the racks of clothes, her brow furrowing when the dresses grew shorter, more form fitting. A complete one eighty compared to modern wizarding fashion-which wasn’t all that modern, compared to her idea of couture. 

“I’ve been looking at those mezzanines, the ones with muggle fashion-” Lavender stopped in the aisle, a questioning look across her face. “It’s not mezzanine, is it? I get some things mixed up here and there...” the rest of her sentence went unsaid. Hermione knew Lavender had been laid up a few weeks after the battle. 

“Magazine” Hermione told her, forcing her features to stay neutral. “But they sound close enough, I suppose.” 

With a nod, Lavender continued towards the back. “Anyway, I’ve been experimenting with combining the two-wizarding and muggle, y’know? It’s funny you came in, I’ve been meaning to get more opinions on them.” she looked over her shoulder. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, not at all.” Hermione told her, eyeing a knee length velvet cocktail dress. She was humoring Lavender, but she was also curious as to what could possibly come from her idea of ‘mixing’ the two worlds. Especially when a pureblood was doing the work. She remembered Arthur Weasley’s attempts to emulate a toaster oven and that hadn’t gone well at all. And it was Lavender Brown, the witch that sometimes insisted on obnoxious colors and gaudy earrings. 

Lavender regarded the curtain with a pensive look on her face before pulling it aside, gesturing for Hermione to go first. 

It was a workshop laden with all kinds of fabrics, a pedal sewing machine in the corner, covered dress forms. Lavender removed them with a wave of her wand. 

Hermione was surprised, to say the least. There were three dresses, each one a different style and color. They were toned down colors, a wine red, sapphire blue, deep purple. They were beautiful; classy yet made to show skin. The stitchwork and pattern was reminiscent of wizard robes, but the style was all muggle. 

“So what do you think?” 

“Lavender I-they’re beautiful…”

The witch’s face lit up with a smile. “Really? Would you wear one of them? Like personally?” 

Hermione eyed the blue velvet dress and nodded. “I would, yeah.”

Lavender beamed, did some weird dance and stepped toward the dress forms. “Would you want to try one on?” she turned to look at Hermione, her face falling a moment. “I’m not trying to be an overbearing saleswoman, I’m just trying to get more eyes on these, the usual customers don’t typically look for this kind of thing.” she shrugged. “I’m trying to save up for my own shop, or take over this place. Whichever.”

“I-” Hermione’s brain stalled, her eyes darting down to her arms. 

Lavender noticed, schooled her expression. “I don’t mean to overstep-and tell me if I am, but if you’re worried about scars… which a lot of people are now-what with the political climate and all that-the boss and I have been working on something for them. Lots of people with ‘em.” the witch crossed the room, pulled open a drawer. “We’ve been talking to this guy from France.” she held up a pendant. “He’s doing this like, pro bono work. Used to do something called coverups?” Lavender shrugged, handed over the necklace. “Said something about lasers running him out of business.”

Staring down at the pendant in her hands, Hermione could feel the spellwork, the intricate web of charms and concealments. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly-”

“No! Take it, we’ve been handing them out, got a bunch of ‘em. But that one’s the least ugly, if I’m honest. The rest are all pretty terrible.”

_ What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. _

“Lav, I couldn’t-”

“Hermione, you  _ can. _ I mean it’s the least I could do.” she gestured towards the dresses, one eyebrow raised. “If you’re ever invited to something that needs something like this, come by, I’d love for you to have one of them.”

Twisting the chain around her fingers, Hermione nodded. “Okay. what do I owe you for this?” 

Lavender scoffed, shook her head. “It’s free, just take it.” she caught sight of Hermione’s protesting expression. “I mean it, we haven't charged anyone for those, the boss doesn’t want to profit off of things involving the war.”

Slowly, Hermione nodded. “Thank you Lav, really.”

“Don’t mention it” 

They caught up on the walk back to the shop’s front door, Lavender coming clean about her reasons for not returning to Hogwarts. She wanted to focus on her life, on making a name for herself in the fashion world; relearning the same five potions and studying arithmancy wouldn’t help her to do that, so she passed the needed standardized tests and called it a day. Hermione seethed in jealousy. What she wouldn’t do to just  _ get out. _ Of Hogwarts, of the public eye. All of it. 

All in all, Lavender wasn’t that bad nowadays. War did that to a person, calmed them down, put things into perspective, forced epiphanies. Even if the girl was a better version of the Lavender she knew, Hermione wasn’t going to be finding ways to talk to the witch. They were friendly acquaintances. That was all. 

Neither needed more than a first name basis. 

Which was fine. Because they could skip that odd part of the goodbye where they made a half assed attempt to meet for tea. It wasn’t needed. 

Outside the shop, Hermione glanced at the time. It was still early enough to make it to the nightly astronomy class, but she wasn’t going. It was barely dusk, most storefronts empty. Not many went out after dark, even with things being ‘safe’. 

She apparated to the outskirts of Hogsmeade in place of using the communal floo set up near the Leaky Cauldron. The sky was a fade of blue and yellow, a cloudless night. If she went to class, she’d have an assignment. 

So she didn’t go. Instead, she pulled the pendant from her pocket, half afraid that it was some gimmick. She’d given up on finding something, but by some stroke of luck, Lavender fucking Brown had helped. It was odd. 

The necklace was a silver teardrop pendant on a strong chain. With a slight sigh, Hermione slipped it over her head, pulled up her sleeve to check.

And it fucking worked.

Scars and tattoos alike melted into her skin like they were never there. Hermione was adamant on making sure it worked, that it wasn’t going to fail after so long, but the spellwork was perfect-she checked, casting a few diagnostic spells on her person. There was no time limit, no nothing. It was a permanent solution so long as the necklace was intact. 

Hermione was so relieved she could cry. Or laugh. 

And laugh she did, all the while staring down at the blankness of her skin, shaking her head. There was nothing on her arms; a clean slate. The word was gone, the ink as well. As much as she loved her tattoos, there was something freeing about seeing clean expanses of skin, something she never expected to see again. A plain forearm, namely. Even with a glamour, she could still see  _ that word,  _ a ghost of what it was, but now it was gone, wiped away. 

She could walk around in short sleeves without judgement, be it for the scar or the tattoos no one knew about. One day, she would come clean about them, but that day was a long way off so long as she was still in ministry-mandated recovery. 

It put her in a good mood, a contrast to the anger plaguing her every thought, and Hermione walked up the grounds with- _ dare she say it _ \- a pep in her step. 

* * *

The new common room was divided into quarters, each section a different style, a different color. It was a blatant attempt at forcing the houses to interact with one another, but the split color scheme only reminded them where to sit, whose place was whose. Every time Draco passed through, Slytherin sat in the green quadrant, Hufflepuff in the yellow, and you know how it goes. 

House unity- a fucking joke. 

It was another reminder to keep separate, that they were different. 

Draco didn’t mind, but it wasn’t like he spent much time in the common room anyway. He spent his time in the library with books older than his great grandmother or his own room when he wasn’t in class-which wasn’t often. Blaise forced him out on more than one occasion, insisting he socialize and stop being such a recluse; but with the way things were going, he’d be fine to live as a hermit until the day he died. He had money, he didn’t need a job, didn’t need to finish his education. No one in the real world was going to do business with an ex Death Eater. 

He was only being realistic. 

The only thing keeping him from locking himself in his dorm with a fifth of firewhiskey was that  _ girl. _ Jean. She was here, somewhere. An eighth year, because she could leave the premises, and the note-and well  _ she was there somewhere.  _

“Oi, Granger!” 

Draco looked up, eyebrows raised. Why the fuck was Theo calling  _ her _ over?

“You know any muggle drinking games?” 

Granger stopped in the doorway, her gaze switching between Theo and the hallway to the Gryffindor dorms. “Why?” she sounded suspicious,  _ and she should, _ Draco thought, hiding a smirk. He knew Theo’s reputation for mischief better than anyone. 

Theo shrugged, stretched his legs out, his feet on the coffee table. “I’m curious, and we’re tired of playing exploding snap and wizard’s chess, not a lot of ways to incorporate alcohol with those, y’know?” he nudged Blaise. “Right?” 

Blaise nodded, but his eyes on a day-old copy of the Daily Prophet. 

“So, you know any?”

Granger blinked a few times, her brow furrowing. “Isn’t that beneath you or something? Lowering your standards to play a muggle game?” 

“We won’t know until we play” Theo teased, holding up a silver flask. “You in or no?”

Draco scoffed. “Like the golden prude would dare drink alcohol on school grounds. Or any grounds, for that matter.”

“You’ll have to come up with better material Malfoy, that was weak, even for you.” the witch muttered, crossing the room but not sitting. “What are you drinking?” she aimed the question at Theo. 

“Firewhiskey” he smiled, offering the flask with raised eyebrows. 

Granger visibly shuddered, her jaw tensing. “What the fuck is up with men and cheap whiskey?” she said it mostly to herself, but Draco heard her. “I doubt you’d want to play the drinking games I know.” she stated, voice a normal tone for Theo to hear. “They’re more  _ risqu _ _ é _ than you’re probably used to.”

“Sounds like you’re just chicken, Granger. What? Afraid you’re going to corrupt  _ us?” _

Draco willed Theo to just… stop talking. Because as much as he liked pissing the witch off, he wasn’t going to deal with her prude self for the night. He was only there to see if  _ Jean _ happened to strike a resemblance to any of the eighth years he was stuck with. So far, he’d had no luck. There was always the option to give up and go to bed, but Theo had booze.

The witch scoffed, her arms crossed. “There’s never have I ever, strip poker-”

“What’s the first one? It sounds interesting.” Theo leaned forward, his feet planted on the ground again. “Is it like truth or dare?” 

Granger blinked. “Kind of, I guess.”

“What are the rules?” 

She shifted on her feet, eyed the ceiling. “You hold up your hands, say  _ never have I ever _ and then something you’ve never done.” she shrugged. “If someone’s done it then they put a finger down.”

“That doesn’t sound very scandalous.” Theo mused, steepling his hands. “What’s the rest?”

“I’ve played a version where the last person with fingers left takes off an article of clothing.” she said, her tone deadpan. “And every time you put a finger down, you drink.”

Draco resisted the urge to laugh, but it escaped him anyway.

“Something funny, Malfoy?”

“Just the part where you said you played.” He told her, leaning back in the wingback chair. “You seem more like a spectator.”

“I’m not one for voyeurism.” She replied in a tone too serious. 

Theo and Blaise both burst into muffled laughter, earning a glare from Draco.

“So will you play?” Theo smirked. “It is a school night after all, dunno if that’ll stop you.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “When has that ever stopped one of us?” 

“Figured Granger would have different rules.”

Granger sighed. “She does. I don’t drink cheap whiskey on weeknights.”

With a hand over his heart, Theo fell back into the couch. “You dare think I’d sink low enough to-”

“A gallon of firewhiskey is three galleons at the pub.” she interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “It tastes like rotten mouthwash.”

Fully recovered from his false offense, the wizard leaned forward in his seat. “Had no idea you had such refined taste in whiskey, Granger.” Theo winked. “So, are you down to play or not?”

“She won’t.” Draco smirked, eyeing her. “It’s probably against some rule written somewhere.”

“Scared I’ll win, Malfoy?” she raised an eyebrow. 

He waved a hand. “You Gryffindors are all talk.”

Shaking her head, Granger disappeared down the hallway, the telltale sound of a door opening and closing signalling her departure. 

“I’d expect nothing less.” Draco muttered, hand outstretched for the flask Theo held. It was halfway to his lips when the door opened again, Granger reappearing with a flask of her own.

_ “Interesting.”  _ Theo mused, eyes on Granger. “You’ll play then?”

A shrug of her shoulders. “I’m not scared.” she fell gracelessly into the cushions. 

Draco fought the urge to go back to his room. He was half interested to see if Granger would actually  _ play _ the game. Theo and Blaise would go all night if they wanted to, so they weren’t backing down anytime soon. 

If they played their cards right, then Granger would be the one to take clothes off. 

_ If she played by her rules, that is.  _

Draco wasn’t going to make it obvious what he was doing just yet, opting to settle in and watch the mess before jumping in headfirst. That was more Theo’s style. Blaise would join in and watch the show, a bystander in most situations. 

Theo, who was currently leaned forward on the couch, a Cheshire grin across his face. “You should be scared, Granger, you know how us Slytherins are.” he nodded at her. “I’ll go first -how do you do it?”

The witch sighed. “You say  _ never have I ever _ and then something you’ve never done.”

“Okay, _ never have I ever _ failed a class.” 

No one put a finger down. 

“Fucking nerds.” Granger muttered. 

Theo shook his head. “No, no, that wasn’t a good one, can I have a redo?”

“You can’t have a redo just because you didn’t get anyone out.” Blaise muttered, his copy of the Daily Prophet discarded.

“Don’t care-” Theo flipped off the room. “I thought of something better. Never have I ever  _ brought someone home to have sex.” _ his face grew wide with a grin when Draco put a finger down. 

Blaise put a hand up like this was a class on delinquency. “So if I’ve done that, do I put a finger down then?” 

“And drink.” Granger nodded, gestured towards Draco. “You go now.”

“I gathered that, thanks.” he muttered, eyeing Theo. Draco saw how the game worked, figured a bit of revenge would do him good-Theo  _ knew _ about that kinky brunette he’d bedded over the summer. “Never have I ever kissed someone of the same sex.”

“It should be against the rules to target someone,” Theo whined, looking towards Granger. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

Granger only held up a hand with three fingers, a bored look on her face. Draco’s brow furrowed-that wasn’t where he wanted this to go. At this rate, it was either him or Blaise that would be taking clothes off. 

“Oh so Granger’s a little bent?” Theo’s eyes glittered.  _ “Interesting.” _

“And what happens if someone’s putting fingers down so they don’t have to lose their skirt?” Draco asked, tilting his head with the words. “There’s no way to know if you’re lying.”

She scoffed. “I’m told Gryffindor is a very trustworthy house, Malfoy.” 

“Don’t mind him, he’s just mad he’s never made out with a Quidditch player.” Theo sighed, a dreamy look on his face. “They’re dumb, but pretty.”

_ “I _ play quidditch, Nott.”

The wizard only shrugged. “So you do.”

“Hate to cut the budding bromance short, but some of us are trying to get drunk.” 

Draco glared at Blaise, narrowed his eyes at Granger when she pressed her lips together to smother a laugh. 

They went around and around, and Draco’s mental image of his friends and Granger shifted. He was half convinced she was lying about some of the things she put fingers down for. 

_ Never have I ever shagged a muggle. _ Two fingers down.

_ Never have I ever forgotten someone’s name the morning after. _ Three down.

_ Never have I ever given someone a false name. _ Two.

_ Never have I ever gone skinny dipping. _ One.

_ Never have I ever kissed more than one person in a day. _ Two. 

_ Never have I ever received a lap dance. _ Three. 

“Draco I think you’re going to be the naked one here.”

Looking between his hands and everyone else’s, Draco felt like strangling Theo for this idiotic idea. Asking about a stupid muggle drinking game.  _ Asking Granger, no less. _ She had to be lying. No way in fuck had she done half the shit she said she did. But Draco knew better than to question her. It’d be misconstrued as wanting to see her sans shirt. 

Even though that’s the only reason he stayed to play. 

Instead of trying to start something, he only rolled his eyes. “Never have I ever had a ménage à trois.” he knew Theo had on one of his more  _ rebellious _ nights, but his eyes flashed when Granger put a finger down. “You’ve  _ got _ to be kidding me.”

“I think I like her,” Theo mused, steepling his remaining fingers. “I’ve got to ask, Granger, was it any good?”

“Far too much work.” she replied with a shake of her head, silver flask against her lips. “So, we’re out.” she nodded at Theo. 

Draco stared at Blaise, one eyebrow raised. 

“Don’t look at me, you’ve obviously lost this one.”

His eyes slid shut as his fingers found the buttons of his shirt. And that’s when he heard the footsteps. 

* * *

An oversight, that’s what she wanted to call it. 

Teaching a bunch of Slytherins drinking games. 

Drinking games that would expose her-for lack of a better word; proclivities.  _ Newfound _ proclivities. It was dumb, yeah, but some part of her didn’t really care. They didn’t know her before, they didn’t know her at all. 

And it was a different version of the game she’d been playing since the morning in the library, so really, it was to be expected she continue playing with fire. 

Because it’s a game, and it’s fun. 

At least it was until the rest of the eighth years came back from that useless astronomy class she skipped. 

Pity, she was just about to see Draco Malfoy without a shirt, just as she’d  _ maybe _ been planning. Okay, there was no  _ maybe _ about it; the possibility of winning was what spurred her to grab a flask of Crown. The possibility of seeing Draco Malfoy whinge about losing was a bonus. 

Just like conning him into taking his shirt off was a bonus. 

If they were truly smart about things, they could have targeted her.  _ Never have I ever watched television, never have I ever used an appliance. _ Really, they could just list the inane things from muggle studies and she’d be down to her knickers already. 

Slytherin as they may be, the three of them were still men, which meant sexual questions. 

Idiots, the lot of them. 

Bigger idiots, the group of eighth years that came back to the common room after class. 

“Hermione, what are you doing?”

Flask to her lips, she turned to see Harry and Ginny, bookbags thrown on the red leather couch of the Gryffindor sector of the room. “What’s it look like?”

“I don’t know.” said Harry, tone slow as his eyes flickered between her new drinking buddies. “Making bad decisions?”

“Maybe.” she agreed, offering the flask. “Do you want to play? Nott and I are winning so far.”

“I think I’m good.” 

Harry nudged Ginny into speaking, the redhead frozen in place, watching with one eyebrow raised. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your little-whatever it is…”

Hermione shrugged. “Your loss.” She turned back to see the three Slytherins staring at her with strange expressions, each a different type. Theo was giving an odd smile, Blaise was eying the flask, and Draco was glaring between the door and her. “What? It’s called being  _ polite.”  _ Another swig of the flask, a slight grimace at the alcohol. “‘S not like they’d play anyhow.” She eyed the two, saw them veer towards hers and Ginny’s room. 

“And why are  _ you _ playing, Granger?” Draco tilted his head with the question. “Something to prove?”

“Nah, I just wanted to see you without a shirt.”

He smothered a cough as he leaned back in his seat. “I think you need to be cut off. Potter was right in the sense you seem to be making horrid decisions tonight.”

“I don’t need alcohol for that, I dated Ron and I was completely sober.” she retorted, kicking her feet up on the table. “Can’t get any worse.”

“Oh no…” Theo drawled. “She  _ is _ drunk, she’s talking about her failed conquests.”

“Like you’re any better after a few.” Blaise muttered, eyes closed as he leaned back in the couch. “If I have to hear about that guy from the club  _ one more time _ I fear we’ll all go insane.”

“Hey, I was in a dark place.”

“We’re all in a dark place, Nott.”

“Are we going to get drunk or are we going to be philosophical? Because I’d rather be drunk when I go kick Harry out of my room in an hour.”

The three of them looked towards the door, a grimace across their faces. “I didn't need to know that.” Theo muttered. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know about the birds and the bees-”

More footsteps, and then a flash of dark purple. “I heard through the grapevine you guys skipped and didn’t tell me.” said Pansy Parkinson, flopping down on the couch next to Hermione. “And with Golden Girl Granger no less.” 

“We’ve been infiltrated.” Draco muttered, tone bordering on sour as he stared at the table, arms crossed. 

“Hardly an infiltration from what I hear.” Pansy tutted, stealing the flask from Hermione’s hand. “Practically invited her in.”

“We ran out of ways to get drunk!” Theo exclaimed, “What else were we supposed to do?” 

“Suffer.” Pansy replied, shaking her head. “What’s in this?” she held the flask loosely, staring at it like it’d bite. 

“Apple crown royal.” Hermione answered, watching as the witch took a tentative sip and then nodded her approval. “-If you drink it all I won’t be happy.”

Anything Pansy had to say was drowned out by the arrival of the rest of the eighth years, some taking over the scattered couches and some making a quick escape to their dorms. Draco’s eyes were on the door, the Ravenclaws in particular, and Hermione had to fight to keep a straight face. The Slytherins didn’t miss Draco’s sudden interest. 

“I still don’t think she’s real.”

“Oh she’s real.” Blaise mumbled, shaking his head. “Got an earful the last time I said that.”

Draco froze, his eyes switching between Hermione, Theo, and the door. “Shut up, the both of you,”

“Is he still on about that mystery woman?” Pansy asked, looking to Blaise and receiving a nod. “My gods, it’s worse than fourth year.”

“What happened in fourth year?” Hermione asked, gesturing for her flask.

The witch handed it back, an evil smile across her lips. “You remember the yule ball-”

_ “Pansy.” _ it was a deep growl of a word from Draco, a threat hidden behind a single word. “Don’t.”

“You’re no fun at all, you know.”

“He’s well aware” Theo interjected with a shake of his head. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

“Rather sit in his room and stew, yeah I know. I think the entire school knows.” Pansy stretched out, making herself comfortable. “The club, the library, and his room. A regular recluse in the making.”

Hermione wasn’t blind to what they were doing, the way they were teasing Draco, embarrassing him into snapping, maybe giving something away, but he just looked miserable. Maybe miserable enough to retreat back to his room. Her agenda was too self serving to allow such a thing, so Hermione did the only thing she could really think of. 

“Are we getting drunk or are we here to embarrass each other into going to bed?”

Draco gave her an odd look, eyebrows slightly raised. He hid it well, but she’d surprised him somehow.  _ She happened to be full of surprises these days.  _ It might be dangerous to flaunt such things, but she didn’t really care. She blamed it on her self destructive tendencies insisting on making an appearance. 

If she wasn’t careful, he’d find her out. 

But careful she was not. 

Not anymore. 

It was freeing, not caring about such things anymore. Even more freeing once they started playing the game, no one insisting on interrogating her when she put a finger down for ‘never have I ever had sex in a public place’ beyong a shrug and the word ‘park’. Draco didn’t end up taking his shirt off, and it turned from being a game about exposing what they’d done to the particulars. 

Pansy seemed to be a bitch by nature, and she embraced it with jibes about things Hermione didn’t know about, but the few words she said made the boys shrink back in their seats, shoulders hunched as they shook their heads in warning. It was similar to the way things used to be with Ron and Harry. Instead of feeling like something was missing, she was fine; these four had the same dynamic, it only proved she could find the same relationships elsewhere, should she want to. 

These days, she didn’t want to. 

People that knew her tended to be overbearing, cared too much about things she’d rather forget. Her ministry appointed therapist says that’s escapism, some version of avoidance, but Hermione wants the past to stay in the past. 

So far, that’s been easy enough. It’s easy to push things down, easy to forget about them. 

It’s not so easy when people remind her about the war, about the terrible times. 

It’s why she stays far away. 

There’s an ease in simply sitting and drinking, playing games meant to break the ice that never go farther than a few words. It doesn’t matter if a couple of Slytherins know she’s slept with a muggle and forgot his name the next day. It doesn’t start a conversation about how careless she’s being. They don’t care enough to share an opinion, if they even have one. She doesn’t say anything about Draco’s seven remaining fingers, proof that he’s kind of a prude, because she doesn’t care if he’s gone skinny dipping nor does she mind that he’s never forgotten someone’s name the morning after. 

Her friends would have opinions, a lot of them; and she doesn’t need that. Doesn’t need anyone hovering over her, watching her like she’s glass about to shatter. Exactly as Harry and Ginny had not even ten minutes ago. 

The rest of the common room’s visitors don’t pay them any mind, but Hermione seethes in silence, because it’s their presence that enacted the whole ‘we’re not taking clothes off’ thing. The four of them might not care about her drinking with them, but if they started taking shirts off, the rest of the student body would have something to say about it. 

It’s not disappointment over the abundance of clothed bodies, but the judgement that would come, should they show more skin. It’s not like they’d be hosting an orgy. 

-But the looks they’d get would make it seem like it. 

The more she drank, the less she cared about the odd looks from the other students, the more she had to keep her eyes from straying to Draco. Naive little Draco Malfoy, who was still eyeing the door every time someone new came into the common room. 

After the slipup in the library, she was sure she’d be found out; that he’d put the pieces together, seeing as it was Eliza on the phone and in the club, but he still underestimated how much she’d changed, how different she was. Not that he really knew her that well in the first place. 

He knew her to be the swotty knowitall that refused to take no for an answer, the girl splayed out in his house with the cruciatus tearing her body apart. Not the woman in the club with tattoos and enough confidence to play such a dangerous game. 

The games went on, but her mind was far away, daydreaming about his hands, the shake in his voice when she got close, the cracks she put in his confident facade. 

Here, with friends, with people that knew him, he was sure of himself. In the club, when she was playing with him, he was hesitant, nervous, reduced to a pile of nerves if she so much as touched him. But he was still good with his hands, experienced enough to know what to do, what to say. A simple touch, a pull on his hair, and he was like putty in her hands. 

The door swung open once more, and Draco finally looked away, eyes landing on Hermione. Her blood ran cold, expecting him to start asking questions, wondering if he just happened to figure it was her by some fucked up process of elimination, but the look on his face wasn’t one of knowing, more like apprehension, an eyebrow raised as if she’d just been challenged. 

“... m’room’s right through here,”

The odd look on Draco’s face made more sense. 

Slowly, she raised the flask to her lips and drained it, shuddering at the taste. She’d need to buy more booze the next time she went home; as the only thing left in her trunk was the cheap stuff Eliza had left at her house. It was for emergencies. 

She kept quiet as Ron made his way across to the Gryffindor dorms, a girl trailing behind. A seventh year, if she had to guess. She slouched down in her seat, hoping, praying he’d just amble through and not notice her. 

The universe hated her. 

“‘Mione?”

“Ronald.” she drawled, knowing he had plenty to say. He had an odd look on his face, quickly turning dark and volatile after seeing her company. 

“So what? You’re playing Slytherin now?”

Hermione knew he was angling for an argument, so she stayed quiet, the plush carpet at her feet suddenly incredibly interesting. The silence stretched out.

“I asked you a question, ‘Mione.”

“And she didn’t answer.” Pansy spoke, “Are you really going to pitch a fit with your  _ friend _ here to watch the whole thing?” 

Hermione looked up, surprised that Pansy Parkinson of all people was trying to help. 

“‘Mione-”

She interrupted him before he could get on with the self righteous speech. “Ron, I’m sure you have better places to be, so save us all the headache and go to your room.” Hermione eyed the seventh year, who’d shrunk back, unsure of what the fuck was even happening. “He’s not nearly as good as he says he is, I wouldn’t bother if I were you.” 

Draco laughed, a smothered noise behind his hand and Hermione kept from glaring daggers at him. 

“What are you playing at? You come back and start hanging around  _ them?” _ Ron’s tone was vicious, volatile as he stared at her, at the four Slytherins. “How much longer until the real you is gone?”

Her voice was low, almost dangerous. “She already is, if you haven’t noticed.” 

“Yeah? Well I think I prefer the  _ old you _ to whatever the hell  _ this _ is.” Ron gestured towards her, his face turning to match his hair. “She wasn’t off her bloody rocker.”

_ The old Hermione was a disaster, hellbent on being a people pleaser.  _

“I think it’s time you go.” came Pansy’s tone once more. “Maybe to therapy, for all that pent up anger.” 

“You’re just going to let her talk to me like that?” His face twitched when Hermione stayed silent, a sure sign the screaming was about to start, his temper at a max. “Right, I forgot you were busy traipsing all over with  _ them. _ So if you’re not shagging Malfoy, which one is it?” Ron’s tone rose with the words, loud but not loud enough to carry to the dorms, yet. The rest of the common room was silent, everyone watching the show. “Zabini? Nott? Or maybe it’s Parkinson? Huh? You switch teams?” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” came Theo’s calm voice. “No one here’s got anything to say to you, Weasley, we’re not hurting anyone, and I doubt you’ve got anything that Granger wants to hear.” he nodded towards the seventh year. “And you’re embarrassing your girl there, so don’t dig yourself a deeper hole.”

“Seconded.” said Blaise, who had been reading the Daily Prophet. “Hate for you to lose that scholarship for the Auror program over a spat like this.”

“What the hell do you lot know-”

Hermione knew him well enough to be able to tell when things were going to get bad, turn disastrous. “I’m not doing this.” she muttered, pocketing her flask and standing. “Go have your fun now that you’ve ruined mine, I’m done.”

She ignored the shouts of protest, the footsteps, all of it. 

The corridors were empty, the last classes of the day over and curfew coming into effect in a few minutes. It’s not like a prefect was about to catch her, seeing as she knew all the spots, all the places to hide away. She couldn’t lock herself in her own room, since Harry and Ginny were  _ busy. _

“Hey!” 

Hermione kept walking, too busy seething and plotting to stop.

A hand, on her shoulder. “Hey!” 

Spinning around, she was surprised to see Pansy Parkinson. 

“Look, I’m sorry you all got dragged into that-”

“Granger.” 

“Huh?” she asked, apologies dying in her throat, confusion settling in. Between the alcohol and the absurdity of the night, she’d nearly forgotten that this wasn’t a normal situation to find oneself in. -being tracked down by Pansy Parkinson, that is. 

“Come on, you’re going to get written up for being out this late.”

“He’s still-”

“He went to his room as soon as you walked out. I think Weasley knows he can’t take on four Slytherins.” Pansy glanced back the way they came. “Come on, I’ve got Malibu in my room.”

Hermione stood still as Pansy tried pulling her back towards the entrance to the common area. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Doing what?” 

“This, being nice to me, you don’t have to,” she replied, staring at the witch. “We aren’t friends.”

Pansy scoffed, pulled harder. Hermione gave in, let herself be dragged along. “You were nice to them, so I’ll be nice to you.” she scoffed “Really, it’s not complicated. Everyone else treats them like scum.”

“So what, I was a decent person and that changes things?”

“Not everyone is decent these days-to us anyhow. And you were mean to the Weasel. I think that makes you an honorary Slytherin on principle.” they were nearing the door now, but Pansy stopped, a slow smirk crossing her face. “And you really think I don’t know?”

Hermione didn’t say anything, afraid of what Pansy was about to say. 

“I hear you’re quite the delinquent on the weekends. I have to say, I never would have pegged you to end up with an assload of tattoos, I would have bet money it’d be Potter.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold for the second time. “Are you going to-”

“What? Tell him? No, this is much more fun.” Pansy grinned. “And if it gets him out of his room, I’d say it’s fine.” she waved a hand. “Draco’s been a shell of himself lately, past few years, actually.”

Hermione was staring, but not fully comprehending what had just happened. “How did you know?”

“Oh please, I’m not dumb, and it’s not like it’s a long list of witches to choose from. That little game you all were playing sold me on the theory.” she nodded towards the door. “So, fancy getting drunk?” at Hermione’s slight nod, the witch muttered the password and pulled her inside. “How do you hide them? Is it concealer? Because I’ve been looking for a new one-”

“Long sleeves.” Hermione cut her off, looking pointedly at the couches, noticing too late that they were empty. 

“They’re holed up in Draco’s room. Probably never come out now.” Pansy sighed, dragging her along. “I think tonight was the first time they stayed longer than an hour. They like you.” catching the look on Hermione’s face, Pansy shook her head. “A tiny bit, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are sporadic at best  
> but kudos and comments are still appreciated ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated!


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